


When I Reach the Other Side

by RIC (prussia)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: (A Cold War Era PruAus Love Story), Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Prison, Drama, Litfic, Loss of Virginity, M/M, Prophetic Dreams
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-01
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-02-23 15:38:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 60,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2552780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prussia/pseuds/RIC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An inmate becomes infatuated with a musician after a night of special entertainment in a prison auditorium. </p><p>With the Christmas holiday approaching, the incarcerated man hopes to be reunited with the violinist he sees in his dreams.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hetalia ~~Novella~~ Novel. Written September 15th through October 19th, 2014.
> 
> \-- I have twenty-four chapters so far, and I promise I'll finish it.  
> \-- It will probably be around thirty chapters total.  
> \-- Chapter Thirteen is my favorite, which is neat, because that's also my favorite chapter of TGAME.  
> \-- As far as warnings are concerned, if you can get thru Chapter Six, I imagine you can get thru anything.
> 
> UPDATE ~ in reference to my former hiatus: 
> 
> I started posting this fic December 1st, 2014, thinking I'd write the ending as soon as I got that far with my editing. But...health problems and such threw me out of commission for a while. On January 11th, 2015, I left AO3 for one year, one month, one day. Came back only to post a different story; but at least I managed to post that one in its entirety. So...a newfound sense of 'I can do this!' helped me to recommence working on this fic November 2016. I've re-edited the first eight chapters (the ones that got published the first time around), and as of right now, December 12th, I'm ready to start posting again. 
> 
> *** Back to the original notes ***
> 
> Prussia is the main character. 
> 
> PruAus is the main ship. 
> 
> GerIta is a minor side-ship. 
> 
> GerAus may or may not be present, in some mild or unrequited form.
> 
> This is my first Human AU fic. I did not use the traditional human names. Here is a guide to the names I used: 
> 
> Prussia = East  
> Germany = West  
> Italy = The Italian Boyfriend  
> Austria = Violin Boy; Pretty Boy; The Violinist; The Musician; The Austrian, etc.
> 
> This is the roughest fic I'm sure I'll ever post here. I simply felt the need to write something other than comedy; something dramatic, and more poetic. 
> 
> I also felt the need to write about bleaker things, so I'm afraid there are several trigger warnings...
> 
> Rape is mentioned, discussed, and implied to occur in the background and/or in past-tense. A sexual act without consent also occurs off-camera. Rape does NOT occur between the two main characters, nor amongst the two supporting characters, and it does NOT happen within any of the potential ships. I promise. For if it did, I'd give this fic a proper archive warning.
> 
> \-- I chose not to use archive warnings mainly to leave the main character's fate a question mark.
> 
> Also: Rape is NOT used as any sort of 'kink' or 'fetish' in this fic. It's present due to the prison setting. Needed for the dangerous environment in which the main character is 'living'. The fear he's subjected to. It's vital to his character's emotional and mental state. And to his physical discomfort, I guess you'd say. His reluctance...his...something. It's not simply tossed on board for atmosphere. I'm not careless with such things, for it's a personal demon of my own. And I've long thought it strange how it's never appeared in my writing, and then I realized, "Ah! Because you write comedies..." So I took away the humor for once, and wouldn't you know it. ~ It appeared. 
> 
> So yes. Trigger warning for the subject of rape.
> 
> Other Material That May Cause Uneasiness:  
> \-- Religious stuff. Talk of God, and prayers, and religious guilt, etc.  
> \-- Drug use; substance abuse.  
> \-- Something akin to prostitution.  
> \-- Panic attacks.  
> \-- Suicidal thoughts and behavior. (Mostly born from suicidal ideation.)  
> \-- OCD ('Are my hands clean or dirty?' is a hoop I jump thru a million times a day.)  
> \-- Murder, violence, physical and verbal abuse. (Again, this is due to the prison setting.)
> 
> [Two of those aspects in that final note are covered vaguely, in past-tense, and/or off-camera, etc. However, proceed with caution, or as you deem fit, and I do hope the heart of the story makes it worth the trip.]
> 
> This is not a smut fic. ~ It does contain a lot of sexual content. 
> 
> [All of the on-camera M-rated scenes are Prussia x Austria.]
> 
> It also contains foul language and profanity. 
> 
> As I said, this is a Human AU, but there are several nods to canon; references, or jokes. And the era is post-WWII, and pre-1990s, so I do hint at certain things, pertaining to that era, but...at the end of the day, it's just a prison story.
> 
> One final note: I shifted tenses a bit in the opening chapter. This was done for some sort of effect, although I'm not sure what effect I was going for. I want to say 'in medias res', but maybe I was just being clumsy, and I don't have the heart to 'fix' it.
> 
> Thank you for reading this! If you enjoy it, I'd love to hear about it, because I never write fics with real drama, or real romance. Assuming the latter exists.

In a cellblock -- in a room, if you can call it that. A prison cell, with one bunk; a slim bed with a mattress as slight as a torn fingernail. And sheets as rough as dead skin. A man lies on his back, and thinks of another man often. Staring at the ceiling, and the odd shadows cast by iron bars. A wall of concrete, and cinder blocks. Concrete floors, and it all shines, when mopped, but otherwise speaks volumes of the heavy traffic of footsteps. Guards retracing their steps nightly. 'All in!' and 'Lights out!' they scream. And the men do as they are told.

But the guards can't reach the prisoner's dreams. The guards can't reach the man who thinks of another.

' _That face_ ,' he beams, as he tosses to his side.

And there isn't much room to toss; there isn't much space to lie. And the narrow bed seems emptier than ever, as the man -- the prisoner -- tosses again, and outstretches his arm, as if holding an invisible bunkmate. As if awaiting a lover to crawl in next to him.

' _That face_.'

***

He repeats the words until he falls asleep, and dreams of the man who sang to him, and only him. He's convinced of it. And one day, when he steps foot from this place, he'll spread his wings, and soar to the doorstep of the lovely man with the lovely voice, the shining violin and bow; the way he bowed to the audience. If you can call it that. A group of rowdy prisoners, sitting in chairs, in long crooked rows. In metal chairs, cold, and squeaking and squawking beneath their shifting weight. Their boots filthy, and caked in the dirt of the prison yard, where they walk in circles, waiting to do what they are told. And the man on the stage, with his lovely face, and voice, and violin, and bow. The lovely man who bowed to them...his coat fell open, and a silk jabot graced its way in a billowing wave like a dove's wing, and one feather wants to pluck itself from the rest, and float away, to re-pin itself to the wings of an angel. A most dignified man, and sight, and creature; a most refined presence, and pretentious outfit, sure: the likes of which the prisoners had never seen. Not even in their time before incarceration. But...Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven -- 'East', as he was known -- East knew a rare treat when he saw one. He knew to appreciate beauty and art for what it really was. For the truth in life. For the hope of a better day to come.

' _When I get out of here, I'll see you again, on your level. And not down here beneath you_.'

And the prisoners had sat in that room -- that large assembly hall -- with zero windows, and harsh low lights. And on that stage stood the man in his dark coat. His sharp features. Those violet eyes behind thin glasses. That one twig of hair, standing at attention, but in a sleek curl atop brunette waves, fixed smart, in an arch, and in sprigs about his face.

That lovely face.

And East had watched the entire performance with the utmost appreciation.

It indeed was a night many of the prisoners of Grover Downs Reformatory would remember for their tenure. A night met with great anticipation.

'Live entertainment tonight, boys!' they had called about to one another, in the prison yard that November afternoon.

'I hope it's a woman,' many had said, and most agreed. Nodding their heads, and smirking. Making obscene gestures with their fingers and hands; holding their palms close to their chests to signify large breasts, and they laughed, and whistled, and cat-called to no one but their grotesque fantasies, and the poor women living in their perverse imaginations. Prepubescent boys, still in attitude, though the rough majority were full-grown men. In their thirties and beyond. Yet East was still in his twenties. A fairly good-looking guy; perhaps in need of a fixer-up job. A makeover. Clean and decent clothes would be nice. Not a prison-issued Prussian blue jumpsuit. Filthy shoes. Black boots with worn laces. That grin of his was a keeper, though. Of course a trip to the dentist wouldn't hurt. Teeth yellowed somewhat by chain-smoking. Hitting the beer a bit too hard before the iron bars locked him in to a forty-year stretch he swore he could serve while standing on his head.

'They won't break me,' he had sworn to his next of kin, before entering the Grover Downs Reformatory. 'I'll be out before the next century! I'll still be alive. I can still get married and have kids. Men have their whole lives for that. -- Don't you worry, Brother. -- I'll be all right.'

'And don't you cry,' he promised himself. Every morning upon waking. While dressing. While eating. While facing the day. Smoking in the prison yard was the only respite he had. And at the end of a long day of routine, and guards breathing heavy down his neck, he'd shower, and hope for the best. Hope for no one to take a liking to him.

'Women,' he'd say. 'That's what we're waiting for, right? You don't want me. I'm just an ugly old guy...' And he'd promise to be a good friend, 'Just don't touch me, all right?'

As if fellow prisoners work on some sort of honor system.

'Ah, well he asked me nicely not to touch him, so I guess I won't lay a hand on him...'

Women. The Heaven they were hoping for. The end of a long day in November. The prison yard filled with a most audible excitement. The men returned to their cellblocks for packs of smokes, and for as decent a hair-combing and face-washing as they could muster in their tiny sinks, with tiny mirrors atop them. Unbreakable glass, one would imagine. And East had peered into his, making silly faces. Smiling at himself, with that charming sideways grin. 'I hope it's a man,' he had thought to himself. 'A pretty one...'

Sure enough, a pretty boy; a young man with a violin case in one hand, and a silver whistle affixed to a chain in the other hand, had swept past a steel door as it swung open, and over the threshold, he had stepped into the assembly hall. Led by a guard, and two stood on either side of him as he faced the crowd. The prisoners in their dark blue suits -- at least a hundred prisoners -- sitting in sick-green metal chairs: the color of sailors as their faces twist in seasickness, and they speed to the sides of a ship to throw-up in the harsh light of day, as the ship sails onward and upwards over unforgiving waves. Casting their lunch overboard. And in the cold metal of one sick-green chair, on the front row of the sea of prisoners, East had leaned forward, and smiled at the pretty boy with the black violin case.

'It's him,' he had thought.

And the Violin Boy took to the stage. Draping the whistle-on-a-chain about his neck, to wear it like a necklace. And it hung above a necklace already in place. A silver chain with a silver cross, balanced light upon a silk white jabot. And the Violin Boy raised his chin, and huffed in exasperation. "I am here to entertain you," he had said in a most dignified tone. 

And the prisoners were torn; split into two distinct groups. Some heckled; some jeered and booed. 'Get this fruitcake off the stage!' they had squealed, like greedy pigs, hoping for slop when served steak. And God knows they were starving! Yet they turned up their noses at the night's offering of entertainment. At the pretty boy, in his dark purple coat.

And the other camp -- the other side of the room; the split group of prisoners -- they looked about to one another, unsure what to think. If they weren't hoping for a female to entertain them, they were at least hoping for a rock band. Some lively group with electric instruments. Something worth getting excited about! Something loud, and rough, to remind them of their old days, in bars and clubs, as Free Men. But no. They got a young Mozart Lover. A pretty boy. 'And maybe it won't be so bad, right?' some of them laughed, as the musician had taken the stage, and laid his case to the side of his feet; his shiny shoes, and he snapped open the case, to take his violin into his hands; to free it from the black velvet lining.

"I shall now play for you one of my favorite compositions," he had spoke in a delicate Austrian accent. "I hope you will enjoy hearing it, as much as I enjoy playing it."

And East had leaned back in his seat. He stretched out his long legs, and crossed his feet -- his filthy boots -- and peered up at the young man. 'You go on and play, Pretty Boy,' he had thought. And he watched with wide eyes. 'That face...' His eyes affixed to the long graceful fingers as they held the bow. And the long graceful bow as it sung across the strings. And the way the Violin Boy shut his eyes. And...those lashes; that hair. Those clever sprigs about his face. That odd light smile, and 'It's all so lovely,' East had thought, and he too shut his eyes, and listened to the softest sweetest song he swore he ever heard, and adored it. All of it. The man who delivered their special entertainment. The way the whistle blipped against the cross, like a jingle bell tinkling against the matte skin of a porcelain doll. _Tink_ , _tink_ , and a slide of the bow. And a symphony in an assembly hall. A concert to a pack of thieves, and murderers, and men who can't take 'no' for an answer. Men who shower with wolves, and feed with snakes. Men who shake their heads, and roll their eyes at art. -- Art! Of all things. -- The beauty of the moment not lost on all, but on some, and most were bored stiff. Some fell asleep. Some hummed along. 'The audacity,' thought East. And he opened his eyes again, to peer at the Violin Boy. To let his image, his shape -- his every feature -- burn itself into East's mind and memory. 'I'll never forget you, or your song, or this moment,' he had promised himself. And in his head, he began to compose a letter he'd later pen, once returned to his cell. Once marched across concrete floors he himself mopped, along with a cleaning crew, only that afternoon.

> 'Dear West,
> 
> I met someone tonight. I think you'd like him.
> 
> He's a pretty boy, and he plays the violin twice as well as you play the cello.
> 
> Just think of it, Brother. One day, when I get out of this place, the three of us, maybe we can start a trio!
> 
> I'll play flute.
> 
> _From East, With Love_
> 
> P.S. The next time you come to see me, bring cigarettes and magazines. Those girly ones you always pretend to read. I need them to show the guys, all right? We use them as money here. That's all it is, West. I swear it. I won't ask for much more, so don't worry, all right? Take good care of yourself, and your dogs, and that sweet little Italian boy you're always talking about. He sounds like a good catch himself. Maybe we can teach him to play an instrument, too, and we'll have a quartet! We'll all sit on some balcony in Vienna, or Venice, or someplace romantic with a 'V', and we'll play old songs people have long forgotten about now, and we'll have nice dreams, won't we? Just as soon as I can reach my feet to softer ground, without all this concrete. Without all these bars. Please think of me. Please come and see me. You're all I've got, West.
> 
> You, and the Boy with the Violin.
> 
> For now, he's just a recent memory, but starting tonight, he'll be my dream.'


	2. Chapter 2

The thought of that November night carried East through the holidays. Through the bleak row of weeks leading up to Christmas. Through the isolation he felt as he spent his special occasions behind bars.

His brother came to see him, though, on the dates designated for visitation. And soon after that November night, for the first time, West brought along his Italian boyfriend. 

Both brothers preferred men, but for some reason, East often spoke of growing old, and getting married and having kids. And how he planned to do so -- how he planned to have children with another man -- was beyond West and his strict way of reasoning; his love of logic. 'But if Brother wants to regain his freedom, and settle down with someone, and have a family, then that's his business, and I only want what's best for him,' West often thought, 'but surely he knows he must marry a woman if he wants to have kids?!'

Nevertheless, West smiled and nodded, and tried to stay in decent spirits, as long as he could manage, while within the gray halls which housed his brother. While visiting the prison. The Grover Downs Reformatory. Along with his Italian boyfriend. The cheeriest, most delightful, and good-hearted soul East had ever met. And on this day, the Italian was all smiles, and good cheer; good company. Having brought to East a Christmas present, two weeks before the actual holiday. 

"I thought you might be lonely," the Italian said, once entering the small visitation room, "so I brought you this painting!"

And as the two men -- West and his Italian boyfriend; a muscular blond and a slender red-head: a couple of well-dressed twenty-two-year-olds -- sat on one side of a thick glass window, at a sort of desk, made beneath the sill; in two wooden chairs, painted light blue, East sat on the other side of the glass, and with bright, wet eyes, looked with longing at the small painting the Italian held against the pane in order for East to see it. 

"I love it!" East said, and the tears welling began to drip down onto his own little desk. Leaning forward in his chair, the paint of which was long ago chipped. His dark blue jumpsuit crinkling, due to the thickness of the material. His name tag bearing 'East' and his prison ID number. His silver hair a mess. He swept it from his forehead, and rubbed his palms at his cheeks. "You guys," he said, and buried his face into the crook of his arm as he laughed: "I don't deserve you, West. Or your Sweetie Pie, and his painting."

The painting of a young man on a stage, wearing a deep violet coat, and playing a violin. 

"Your brother told me all about those dreams you've been having," the Italian said. "So I painted this for you! I thought it could keep you company here," and he beamed, yet turned to West. "I hope it's all right," the Italian added, emitting a faint laugh. "I hope I didn't make it worse." 

"No, not at all," said West, and he reached out and touched his boyfriend on the knee; reassuring him in a low tone, "Brother is always emotional."

Quick to cry, and quick to laugh, and that's what so many loved about East, yet it was also what so many ridiculed him for. It just depended on the company he kept. 

"And the magazines you requested," West said, clearing his throat, as he slid from his coat at least three glossy magazines with half-naked girls on their covers. "I brought them like you asked, Brother," and he motioned for a guard to join them. 

The sole and official prison guard of the visitation room; once he was within earshot, West continued, "I hope these won't be considered contraband," and soon the guard took the magazines from the blond's hand.

"Not at all," the guard said, smirking towards East. "I just hope you'll share these with your friends," he teased, raising the magazines and waving them about so the pages would flip, thus causing anything hidden to fall to his feet, yet nothing fell. "You can have them after your visit is over."

"Ah!" said the Italian. "And this too," he remarked, while attempting to pass his artwork to the guard. "Can Mr. East please have this painting I painted, to hang in his room?" he asked, then buttered the request in high-pitched singsong: "Pretty please with cannoli on top??" 

"Quiet," West said beneath his breath. "Where do you think you are? One of your kindergarten classrooms?!" 

Indeed, the Italian was an art teacher for grade-school students, and often spoke as if addressing children. Or perhaps more aptly, he often spoke as if he were still a child himself. 

The guard accepted the painting as the Italian pulled away his hand, as slow and careful as if releasing a dove into the wind.

"It's...nice," the guard said, but cocked his head, eyeing the image with a narrowed, confused gaze. "Just what do you think he wants with this," the guard asked, upholding the painting, "and with these?!" he laughed. "A bunch of girly magazines, and a painting of a guy??" And it took him a moment --  for the guard to turn his back, and then return to the far side of the room, before once again facing the two free men and the one incarcerated man -- to fully grasp the situation. "Wait a sec!" the guard said. "This is that guy who played for you fools last month," he noted to East, in reference to the man depicted in the painting, and he chuckled. "How did you know what he looked like?" the guard asked the Italian. 

"East told West about his dreams!" the Italian blurted. "And West told me," he smiled; his bright eyes gleaming. "East dreams about that musician every night!" 

"Shut up," West snapped, and the Italian jolted in his seat.

Re-situating himself to sit stiff-backed, and upright, and 'Yes, sir' his demeanor seemed to state as tears welled in his half-squinting eyes, just as East's eyes were drying. And the Italian looked at nothing; at no one. He hated to be scolded, and even worse, he hated to disappoint. 

"Don't fuss at him!" East said, pointing at his brother. "You be happy to have someone next to you! You be happy he cares about you!! And about me, to paint that, and..." 

East's eyes darted to the prison guard, who had one hand on the painting atop the magazines, and the other hand on his club; his night stick. And God knows, from the beatings the men received, for such silly things, like taking too long in the showers; for getting caught with contraband; for not mopping the floors to a high-enough gleam, the guards -- not a single one of them -- were afraid to use their clubs. Not even at the height of the holiday season. Not even on a visitation day, in front of family and friends. 

The guard glared at East. "You watch yourself!" he commanded. "And don't think I won't keep these," he said of the magazines. "Or rip this to shreds," he said of the painting. But he peered at it again, and his gaze softened, if only somewhat.

'Although I'd hate to,' the guard added in thought. 'That ditzy Italian sure can paint.'

And maybe even the guard had a fond memory of the Austrian who had visited the prison, during the month prior, to play for the inmates. To march upon the stage, and that very guard had led him; had directed him, 'If anyone causes problems, we'll nab 'em. But if you feel uncomfortable at any time, and want us to escort you from the stage, just blow this whistle.' And that very guard, armed now with pornographic magazines, and a small and vivid painting, with one hand on his night stick, had placed the whistle in the Austrian's grasp. 'Don't be afraid to blow it,' he had instructed. 'Even if you're only slightly afraid.' A pretty boy, with a world of talent, and it was kind of him to grace the prison with a bit of class and high-brow entertainment. Not the sort of thing the inmates or guards were used to, sure, but it was a treat to hear some 'real' art. To have a polite, albeit smug and snobbish maestro in their midst. The way he had marched from the warden's office to the assembly hall as if he were a prince amongst peasants. Bestowing his attention to the underbelly of the world; throwing out to them a full meal, yet most deemed it breadcrumbs.

"You liked that guy, huh?" the guard asked East, all while smiling a slight yet sincere smile. 

"I did," replied East in a quiet voice. "I thought it was a nice break, yeah?" 

"A nice break," the guard said, and he nodded, but composed himself. ' _Ahem_ '. Adjusting his tie, and straightening his back. "Only five minutes left for this visitation, Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven. Make the best of it, and keep your hands off the glass!" 

Sure enough, East was rubbing his fingers at the thick pane between he and his brother, and his brother's Italian boyfriend. 

"Please come back next week," said East. 

And West reached for the glass window. "I'll try to," he said, but couldn't bring himself to touch the pane. 

And the Italian slid his arm around his boyfriend's waist. "I'll bring you something sweet to eat!" he chirped. 

And outside, a storm was plowing its way over the horizon. Already burying deep the fields and trees; the houses, rooftops, and businesses covered in white blankets of freezing sleet and ice and snow. 

"I hope you make it home safely," the guard told West and his boyfriend as they stood to leave. 

East waved good-bye, and lied his face to the desk to weep, but he didn't weep. He stood, and took his magazines and his painting, once the guard had marched him back to the other side. Once another guard came, and shackled his wrists with handcuffs, after unlocking the chains from his ankles, just so East could march alongside the new guard back to his cellblock.

Back to his second-floor cell; to his room, if you can call it that; and once inside -- once the door, the wall, both one in the same, had been slammed shut -- East used a wad of wasted chewing gum to pin his painting to the cinder blocks.

' _I dream of you nightly_ ,' he wrote in his mind, ' _I dream of you nightly, and I dream of you often_ ,' he wrote an epitaph for the painting. He wrote it in poems, instead of prose. He wrote it without a pen; only in the deepest, most beautiful parts of his mind, did he compose such love songs without rhythms; without melodies, or rhymes. Poetry, the art of kings and princes; also of peasants and inmates. ' _I'll stare at your face, and one day I'll meet you. I'll speak of you, and dream of you often. And I'll take your violin strings, and use them to floss my teeth. And you'll thank me. You, in your silk jabot like blowing smoke, white puffs and tendrils from a flaming stick I also house between my teeth, and you'll think of me, too, and often. Nightly. I'll dream of you, I'll dream of you. You in dark violet, and me in Prussian blue_.'

And after the painting was affixed to one of the solid walls of his cell, East settled back onto his bed. Beneath his rough sheet, he outstretched his body, and sighed. Staring up at the ceiling, as yet another guard yelled, "Lights out!" 

And East slid his hand to his stomach, and rubbed. His silver hair a matted mess upon his sweating forehead. His tear-streaked cheeks. His tear-stained pillow. He tossed to his side, and stared at the painting for what felt like hours, but boy, did it feel like bliss. A best Heaven as anyone could ever hope for. 

"You're too good for me," he whispered aloud to the image -- to the idea -- of the man in the painting. "You're too good, but I could fix that." 

And he grinned at the painting of the Violin Boy. His dream man. 

And he shut his eyes, and in his mind, he could hear the whole symphony. The strings as they sang. And the bow as it spread across the land of a thousand lovely songs. And the snowfall drowned the world, as East saw it, from his tiny window -- like a man atop a minuscule island, lost at a sea long frozen; covered in ice and snow, and he might as well have lived in a snow globe. Quick! Someone shake it...for East had fallen asleep. Dreaming of the man in the painting. Once talking his last words of the night; spending his last breath of the evening to tell the man:

"I love you, I love you. -- I don't even know you. -- But please come back to me."


	3. Chapter 3

The week before Christmas, and yet another visitation day rolled around at Grover Downs Reformatory. A fancy name, 'reformatory', for a place filled with animals, and convicts. East a victim of circumstance. Sure, he was innocent. Just as everyone wanted to be.

And into the visitation room marched East -- as much as a man can march, with his ankles shackled together with a short length of chain. 

"Hello, Brother," East said, as he took his seat in the light blue chair; in his dark blue jumpsuit. Peering through the glass at the lone soul on the other side of the window. "But where's your Italian Sweetie Pie??" East whined.

"He couldn't make it today," sighed West. "But I brought along a present, anyway." 

East grinned. "You brought me some smokes?" he asked. "You forgot them last time. Nearly cost me a...well, never mind what they cost me," he shook his hand, dismissing the thought. "I'm just glad you're here, that's all," he smiled. "But since you ARE here...what did you bring??"

And behind the blond in the dress shirt; behind West, a door opened, and into the visitation room -- on the safe, 'free' side of the glass -- in the eyes of East appeared a man; into the small, warm, and well-lit visitation room, walked the Violin Boy. The man in the painting. The man from the stage. The Pretty Boy.

And he graced his way past the guard, his nose upturned in the air, if only slightly. And he fussed with his jabot. He pulled at his black coat, and tugged at its hem. Clearing his throat, in a soft tone, he raised his chin:

"Is this the man?" the Austrian asked.

And West nodded 'yes' to the musician who joined his side. "My brother," West said, pointing towards East.

Then, in a harsh whisper, West directed his brother: "Go on," he said. "Say 'hi' to him." 

For East sat wide-eyed and frozen. His mouth agape, as he stammered; a smile ever-growing. "It's you," he finally said, almost breathless, but then blurted, "HA! It's you. It's really you." And he rose to standing, but the guard reached for his night stick.

"SIT DOWN PRISONER NUMBER NINETEEN FORTY SEVEN!!" the guard shouted. 

And East shot to his seat. "Ha," he laughed again, sort of stating it. "I was just playing," he said. "Just testing to see if you were watching," and East winked at the guard. "I had hoped maybe you fell asleep."

And he turned back to face the Austrian and West. "My brother brought you here," East said. "My brother is a saint!"

"Yes, well," said the Austrian, as he fiddled with the buttons of his coat, "I'm only here to meet you, and then I must be off to a charity event, so...I really don't have much time to talk, I'm afraid." 

"Afraid of what?" East asked, and he smirked, "Don't you remember me?! I was the man on the front row that night." His gaze and tone softened to admit: "I'll never forget the way you play...I love the way you play." 

"That's...nice," said the Austrian. "How charming." And he motioned for West to stand. 

"Yes, of course," said West, as he abandoned his chair and pulled it away from the desk beneath the window. The only chair available, for the usual duo parked on the free side of the room had been split; the other chair needed elsewhere, perhaps in the hallway for the long line of guests queuing up and waiting to see other prisoners. December always brought in more visitors than any other month of the year.

"Please," West added, "do have a seat." Speaking a bit more refined -- a bit more mannerly -- due to present company.

Yet the Austrian narrowed his eyes, and lowered himself to the chair, as if he were a prince slowing his speed, to sit upon a throne he deemed unworthy, and feared would give way, the second he sat upon it. Not good enough for him. But warmed by the young man who wrote letters to him twice a week. By the man who called him on the phone, begging:

> 'If you won't answer my letters, will you please hear me out? My brother is in prison, and he adores your music, and would you please go and see him this holiday season? If you can make it to just one visitation day, I'll donate a large amount to any charity of your choosing, and see to it you can play for them at any upcoming event. -- I have many connections in the art world. My friend is a big patron of the local arts. -- I promise. My brother is a good man. -- He was framed. -- And thank you for listening.'

Oh the lies West told for the sake and love of his brother. Although, most of it was true. The framed part was an exaggeration of sorts; not a total lie, for West, indeed, was an honest man, and East himself WAS a good man. Just one year too many spent in the wrong company. In a bad crowd. And for crying out loud, he didn't mean to do what he did. And he didn't mean to get caught, either. With his hands covered in blood, or at least in sin. And no one man can judge another man's crime lest he's lived a hard life, too, and come to think of it, no one man's life is easy. They all barrel through, drenched in sin, if you believe in such things. But West believed in East, and he believed his brother could carry this weight with all his strength, and most of all, he believed in second chances, and in gifts. Heartfelt gifts to give hope to those incarcerated. Those imprisoned. The birds caught in cages, and for fear his brother would lose his unique spirit, please let this visit fill his heart and head with the hope of getting out someday. Of reforming, and growing old, with a man or a woman, and having kids. A good life. A normal life, and days spent raising a family, and not smoking smuggled cigarettes, and trading contraband in a prison yard, to protect himself from the gruff and grotesque monsters who wanted to make his brother a plaything. A lover. -- If you can call it that, and you can't.

"So you enjoyed my concert," said the Austrian, studying the prisoner on the other side of the glass. "How lovely," he added. 

And East gleamed. "Yes, I love your fancy music, and I love your voice, too," he said. "When you sang along to that final song, I thought I'd died and gone to Doggy Heaven!" 

The Austrian laughed, but blushed; embarrassed for the shackled man. "Why on earth Doggy Heaven?! -- Why not Human Heaven??" 

"Because I don't deserve Human Heaven," said East. "But ah, I bet you do," he breathed deep, and wished he could smoke in the visitation room. Fingering at the glass, he lowered his voice: "Hey, put your hand to the window." 

The Austrian's brow furrowed a bit, but he peered down at his white-gloved hands, before placing one to the pane. "Like this?" he asked. 

East nodded. "Just like that." 

And East placed his own hand flat against the glass. His palm outstretched, to meet and match-up with the Austrian's hand -- like long-lost identical twins, their two hands; palm-shaped puzzle pieces. Yet the Austrian's hand was gloved, so they didn't match completely.

"Take it off," said East. "The glove, I mean. Please. If you don't mind," he laughed. "I just want to see something..." 

The Austrian shot a worried glance to the blond at his side. 

West smiled an odd smile. "Just...make him happy," said West. "Or humor him, at least." Sweat began to bead on his forehead, but he wiped it away with his sleeve. 

"Brother," said West, craning his neck a bit, to see East clearer through the glass, as West stood near the seated guest. "We do have to leave soon, you know. Make it quick, yeah?" 

"Yeah," said East. "Got it. Quickly...take off the glove, then," he said to the man he wished had come bearing a violin. Just to hear him play again...though to see him again was a gift in its own right! But a private concert would have carried him past Christmas, and into the New Year, on a euphoric high note.

"All right, then," said the Austrian. "I guess I can..."

And he slid the white glove from his right hand, to place his palm bare against the glass, to align it with East's left palm.

"Just like that," said East again, and he smiled. Red-violet eyes shining, and silver wisps of hair about his forehead. "You do remember me a little bit, don't you?" he asked. "If only a little...I was the one who cheered for you the loudest!" East laughed. "I clapped so hard, my hands hurt, so you owe me, yeah? At least this much." 

The Austrian smiled, but was struck by the fear in the inmate's eyes. How cowardly he looked all of a sudden; how sheepish, and scared.

"Yes," said the Austrian. "I can do this much." 

And the two sat a moment -- a long, Heaven-esque moment, it seemed to East -- the two sat with their palms pressed against each other, with only a thick sheet of glass in between. 

"I've never wanted glass to melt away as much as I do right now," East said, and he shut his eyes, so as to hide himself, and his heart, from whatever reaction his comment may conjure from the Austrian on the other side of the barrier. "I just wish," he continued with his eyes shut, "you knew how much this visit means to me. How much I want to touch you..."

"BROTHER," shouted West. "Now let's keep it clean." 

And the guard perked to attention, raising a brow at the proceedings, but he flashed an odd grin. 'So the guy with all the girly magazines DOES have a thing for the young musician,' he snickered to himself.

"Oh," said the Austrian, "it's perfectly all right," but he pulled away his hand from the glass; retreating his palm to his pants-leg. To rest it comfortably upon his knee, and he glanced away, nonchalant. "I've had lots of fans over the past few years," he explained in a conceited tone. "They all throw roses at my feet, or throw themselves at my head," he laughed, not from the confession but at his own odd choice of words; not knowing how else to describe the nature of certain fans without sounding undignified. "But this is the first time anyone has ever wanted me to simply touch a sheet of glass." And his voice and demeanor shifted from uppity snob, to something more akin to a man surprised by the simplistic nature and easy-to-please heart of a peasant. "How sweet," the Austrian said. "To think my visit, and the sight of my hand could please you," he continued. "Is there anything else I can do to lift your spirits before I leave?" 

"You could kiss the glass," said East, all in one breath. "I mean," he laughed, "if you don't mind, that is." And he smiled a coy smile. A boy asking for his first kiss, though God knows, it wasn't his first kiss. But God knows again, the prison had sucked the idea and memory of such sweet things right out of him. What semblance of romance and daydreams remained were placed there mostly by his newfound love of a stranger. By the Violin Boy. The Little Master who sat before him. The man in the painting; the painting East kissed every night before going to bed. 

"Kiss...the glass??" the Austrian asked. "But...I...guess I could?" he said, or questioned, or he wasn't quite sure. Lost in an odd train of thought. To press his lips to a sheet of unbreakable glass. To a thick-paned window between him and an incarcerated man. And just what did this guy do to land in prison, anyway? Just how innocent or how guilty was he?? Just what crime did he commit?! And how old was he? The silver hair was misleading; it didn't match his face, nor his voice, and...more importantly:

"What was your name, again?" the Austrian asked, and this time, it was a question, and this time, he meant it, without a shred of smugness, but still with that admirable air of dignity. That refined tone of only a prince.

"It's a long story," said East, "but our parents," he pointed towards West, "they named us after countries. The countries where they were born, and...we just call ourselves 'East' and 'West' for short." 

"And you're East," said the Austrian. 

"I'm East," said the prisoner, in a similar accent to his brother's. A bit thicker, though; a bit more boisterous and comical. A lot less musical in tone as compared to the Violin Boy's voice. Perhaps grating at times; even shrill. "But didn't West explain?"

The Austrian shook his head. "It's doesn't matter," he said. "Just...go on, and I'll amuse you, then." And the Pretty Boy leaned forward, puckering his lips, and shutting his eyes; leaning towards the glass, and pressing his lips to the pane. 

East stared for a moment, smiling. He then glanced to West, and winked.

Before returning his attention to the Austrian, East shot a glare to the guard, and said, "If you tell anyone about this, I swear I'll..." 

The guard raised his chin, and touched his night stick. "You'll what," he said, but part of him wanted to smile. Part of him was happy to see such an odd sight, or unfamiliar scene, at least, at the height of the holiday season. Maybe it was heartwarming, to see such a young guy get his Christmas wish. To meet again with the young musician. With the snob who graced their halls, the previous month, and now here he was again; without a whistle to wear or blow should he get scared. The musician, leaning forward, to give a pretend kiss to one of the prisoners. 'How funny,' thought the guard of the Austrian. 'To lower himself...to be with one of them.' 

And West turned away, thinking maybe his brother deserved some privacy. To have his wish granted. To have his dream come to fruition. To have a moment of happiness, in reality, and to have it all to himself, after the year he had served in this bleak confinement. 

"All right," East said, "I'm coming for you. Stay just like that," and he leaned forward, and he, too, kissed the thick glass. Pressing his lips to the unbreakable pane. And he kissed the idea of the man across from him. With both eyes opened, he watched as his lips met the lips of the Violin Boy on the other side. 

Enjoying the sight -- lost in the moment -- though soon the prisoner settled back into his seat.

"There!" said East, and he laughed, but then whispered, "Now we're sweethearts."

The Austrian opened his eyes in a split second. "Sweethearts?!" he cried.

East nodded. "You can't change it now, I won't let you. No take-backs!" he called. 

And West sighed, "Brother," while wiping his forehead again, then warning, "time's almost up, so let's quit playing around." 

"Yes," said the Austrian, as he pretended to check the time on a wristwatch he didn't wear. "You take good care of yourself, and..." 

East interrupted; wanting to stand, but the chains between his ankles clanked hard, as he twitched in his seat, leaning forward, though not as far this time; his eyes ever-widening; his voice growing louder, and shriller, yet in an odd way softer: "I've never been more serious, West," he said. "Don't let this one out of your sight. Bring him back, all right?" And as he spoke, East stared straight ahead at the Austrian, despite delivering his words to his younger brother. "All right??" he begged. "Promise me, West." 

The Austrian emitted a faint laugh. "You're...quite the character," he said as he stood from the chair. "Quite the character," he repeated, and gaped at West as if to say, 'Just what kind of a crazy person did you bring me here to meet?! I thought you were normal...I thought you sounded normal on the phone. A bit desperate, perhaps, but..when I saw you in person, you looked so well-dressed and normal; so decent; so handsome; so charitable, and giving, you seemed to me, yet...your brother is not only a prisoner, but obviously insane!!' 

"Please," said East, as he touched the glass again with his hand. His bruised wrist. His stiff arms, and his Prussian blue jumpsuit wrinkled heavy in places, due to his loss of weight in the past year of imprisonment. "I don't ask for much in this life. And I don't even care if you don't like me, but...you don't know me yet, Violin Boy," he said, and his smile faded as he glanced between the desk and the Austrian's cold stare. "You could at least give me a chance. Come back on Christmas Day?" he asked. "At least think about it."

And the Austrian pulled the white glove back onto his hand. "I'll think about it," he said.

Stepping forward, he bent over the blue chair, and pressed a single finger to the glass.

East smiled, and pressed a finger to the glass to greet it. 

"I promise you that much," the Austrian said. 

And it was enough to get the prisoner through one more long and silent march to his cell, and one more long and near-sleepless, yet not dreamless night. 

And as East lied on his back, at that December's evening's 'lights out', he said to the ceiling, or to God, or to whoever was listening: "I love that man more than life itself." 

Muttering a delayed addition in the dark, "And I hate life," as he tossed himself to face the wall. The stiff slab of concrete blocks, and the few pictures pinned upon it. -- Along with the painting of the Violin Boy, thanks to his brother's talented Italian boyfriend, there were also black-and-white photographs of East and West when they were kids. Of the dogs he used to own. Of the house he used to live in.

"I'll marry that man," he said to no one, "just as soon as I get out of here." And in his mind, he began to make an escape plan. A nonsensical plan, involving hot air balloons, and jackhammers, and mustaches and grapes. Of little yellow birds. Of pianos filled with dynamite. Of violin strings laced with cyanide, on which the prison guards would be forced to floss their teeth. 

"I'll wait for you...I'll keep myself safe for you," East vowed in the darkness.

Leaning up, outstretching his arm, he petted the painting as if to seal the promise. 

And his dreams that night were filled with the Violin Boy. Of the man in the painting. Of all the nonsensical plans, yet...the one of building a home for he and the Pretty Boy. Of marrying him, and adopting a kid. It was all pretty sweet, and somewhat logical. No wishful thinking, to imagine, maybe, just maybe, tonight, the Violin Boy wouldn't wash his hand. Maybe he'd think of East, and smile, when he slipped the glove from his palm before going to bed. Before gracing his fresh clean sheets; after leaving the prison, to walk alongside West. To go to the charity event, to play glorious renditions of classical pieces. To have West smile at him from the sidelines. Without the Italian boyfriend in sight. And maybe, just maybe, the Austrian was taking a liking to West, and in return, West was taking a liking to him. No, surely not. Surely they didn't walk arm-in-arm back to the Austrian's apartment, post-charity-event, but...

They did.

And it's a good thing, sometimes, to be locked away. In a dark place. To not know all the lies people tell for your own sake. Of all the lies, and all the things they do and say behind your back. 

At least West didn't kiss the Austrian goodnight, or vice versa...for if he did -- if either of them kissed the other -- there would be no sheet of glass to separate them. 

But West was not heartless. Nor selfish. No matter how attractive and interesting he deemed his new friend. And if not 'friend', then 'acquaintance'. A very good and beautiful and talented acquaintance. And, 'No, I didn't have a good time tonight,' West had lied and told his Italian boyfriend on the phone after walking the Austrian to his apartment door, then driving home.

And soon after, as the Austrian stood at his bedside, before crawling into his bed: something akin to a pillow on which God himself would be proud to rest his head; something extravagant, and marshmallowy; a cloud in Human Heaven, perhaps; with purple sheets; the Austrian _did_ peer down at his un-gloved hand, and smile, if only for a second. 

"East," he said. "How simple. How easy to please." 

And his heart beat fast, if only for a moment, before resting his head; before crawling between the sheets, to shut his eyes, and smile at his own ceiling. A free man, with all the choices in this world he could ask and hope for. With all the offers a handsome face can bring. And he sang to himself in the darkness. He sang softly before falling asleep. A fan of his own voice. But he forwent the classics, and sang a little song about birds in cages, and how good it was to be confined, lest one go out wandering in the world, and get lost. How scary it was, the Austrian thought, to be lost all the time. To wander alone. And he hoped for a proper home someday, too. Of a place where he didn't feel like the walls could cave in around him. Where many of his longtime 'fans' wouldn't know the address. Couldn't follow him home. Where he wouldn't have to worry men could find him while sleeping, and rip back the clean sheets from his feathery, marshmallowy bed on which God himself would be proud to rest his head.

\-- Assuming God would still want to, if the sheets were forced unclean.

To have a tough man...a strong man. Someone to protect him. A man unafraid of anyone or anything. 

A man too rough around the edges to wear gloves on his hands. 

Maybe it was a dream, or maybe it was a nightmare, but that night, the Austrian dreamed of East, just as East dreamed of the Austrian. 

' _A name_ ,' East called out in his dream. ' _But you never told me yours_.' 

And as if the two dreams intertwined in some cosmic space no human can see, the Austrian answered East in his own dream:

' _But you never asked_ ,' the Austrian said. 

It was only his face the prisoner loved. His voice. An idea. 


	4. Chapter 4

The smell of Scotch whiskey on his breath. Christmas Day, and the Austrian waited for West to come and pick him up for a 'date'.

He paced the well-decorated sitting room of his stately apartment. A newspaper lay askew on his sofa, bearing the headline:

' **Local Musician does Admirable Charity Work** '. 

\-- Yes, playing at orphanages and prisons was a great way to get your name in the press.

' _But I don't even know your name..._ '

Here's hoping East read the Daily Gazette of Grover Downs. A small German town, where no one cared too much for the unsightly prison on the horizon. A shameful place, once used to house the sick. A former hospital, later outfitted with cells, where many could still hear pained cries in the night. Footsteps where no man or woman or child could be seen as they tread. Where no prisoner could see the feet, nor the bodies, of the former patients as they moved past cells. But what you hear and what you see aren't always one in the same. Not everything can be explained away. And in the light of day, the prison shone like an eerie castle, even more so that Christmas Day. Snow several feet deep all around.

And East lied in his cell, on his bed, and he hoped for a miracle. For a visitor, or three.

"You're coming for me, I know it," he said, as he glanced over at the painting, and smiled.

***

In the stately living room, the Austrian paced until he stopped to lean against the window. Pushing back silk curtains the color of champagne, he pressed his nose to the glass, and the cold of it tickled. He thought of East, and grinned. "You silly fool," he whispered to no one.

The only living creature within earshot was a gray fluffy cat at his feet.

"You think I should go?" he asked Mr. Whisker Schnitzels.

The little cat meowed in response.

The Austrian nodded, and leaned down to pet and then lift the small cat. "I love you, you know," he said, nuzzling at the cat's neck. And the Austrian rose up again to hold the cat to the window. To peer out and down at the empty street below.

"So quiet today," he said. "The phone hasn't rang once!" And in his mind, he scolded his long list of former lovers, and all the men and women who usually called him on any given day or night. Or both. Long into the night! And most of the men and women who courted him, or pined for him, had long ago given up. Or gave in, to the idea of the Violin Boy being just that: too much of a boy, and not so much a man. Too young, and too demanding. Too spoiled. Too accustomed to a certain way of life not many could afford.

For the Austrian was indeed raised rich. A silver spoon in his grip, and an acid tongue in his mouth. And if not acidic, then at least razor sharp.

"I don't know why they haven't called," he began, peering one last second with a sigh, before he turned, and closed the curtains. Careful to balance the cat in his arms. "It's not like Christmas should stop them from caring about me," he said.

Settling onto the sofa, the Austrian let the cat roam free across the green-striped silk.

"You'd think they'd want to know how I'm feeling," he said, and shut his eyes to the world. "You'd think they'd want to wish me a Merry Christmas."

***

East began to grow restless in his tiny cell. "Won't they show up soon?!" he begged an answer of the walls. "Please God, let them come..." 

And East wondered if God ever heard him at all. How he had prayed to be protected, at all costs, and all times, from the tougher guys in the prison yard. From the men in the showers. From the guys who thought a good time meant roughhousing, in back rooms, while gathering gear for the laundry, the shop house, the slop house, while making chow, and making 'nice' conversation, which usually consisted of 'Just how far down your throat do you think I can cram myself,' while holding East by the mouth. By grabbing his chin, and shaking his head. Mouth agape, and gurgling; choking out sounds no man or woman or child should ever make. And he always swore he'd bite down, should they ever try and take him. Make a meal of him. Meat of him. A fool of him! 'I'm no one's toy,' he swore, and he begged of God, Please, let him stay that way. Remain that way. 'Don't let them break me,' he said, as he swore nightly, this place wouldn't take the best of him.

'Just how far down your throat do you think I can cram myself before you forget to breathe?' they'd laugh, and sure, East wanted to cry, but he didn't cry. He didn't break. He didn't bend. Well, never in any direction which would lend himself to their favor, or wants. To their sick need of finding a lover in a haunted reformatory. 

How few of them had reformed. None of them, to be exact. And they were all going about their daily forced routines of wanting to break free; of wanting a better life, but knowing damn well most of them didn't deserve such a chance or break; a twist in fate, to wind up here, they were sure of it, and they'd swear to never lay a finger on the other; on any man amongst them. They all liked and loved women, and sex was something to break others. It was a weapon, sure, wasn't it? To be armed with cocksure rifles, and ammo of piss-akin venom. Violent 'lovers'. The awful things. The awful creatures, like cockroaches, scrounging through the other men's cells. Looking for girly magazines, and sniffing at the other men's bed-sheets, while mopping out the cells. The bedrooms of their fellow inmates. And East didn't have an eye, nor a heart, nor a mind for such things. And now he only hoped for the other inmates to never see his painting. To never lay an eye, nor a hand, nor a cum-shot upon it. 'Leave it alone,' he'd scream, if ever faced with such things. He'd kill a man, if given the chance to break free from his stone-set routine, only to find another man mopping out his cell, and pleasing himself to the painting pinned to his wall. The painting of the beautiful Violin Boy, and surely the other inmates at least appreciated the face -- that face -- of the man who came to entertain them that one November evening.

Come to think of it...East sat, and shut his eyes, and shifted his weight. Unbuttoned his fly, and opened his eyes in a start, and stared ahead at the painting. 'If you won't come and see me, I'll come to you,' he thought, and let loose on himself right there in his cell. Right in the daylight. And it's strange how desperate a prison can make a man. A decent man, once; a good man, and a nice kid. _Once upon a time._ How he had read fairy tales -- Brothers Grimm, of course -- at his little brother's bedside. But such pleasant bedside scenes were all just a memory now. And he slid his hand through the opening of his Prussian blue jumpsuit, and helped himself; held himself, and it was nice to dream of another man touching him, instead. Of a pretty face, of a man who was born in Vienna. Not that East knew of such a thing. And no, he didn't read the Daily Gazette. He hadn't read anything in ages. Before coming to prison, East wrote in diaries nightly, and reread them, and read other books, at the speed of four a day. But now. In prison? -- Imprisoned, with only a rat-infested library to keep him company?? No thank you. All the books housed within those stale-scented, dull, dank walls reeked of disease, and looked to be sneezed upon. Germ-splattered pages. Bent corners, and secondhand text. Rough edges. Covers brittle from wear. And the dog-eared pages of men too lazy to use bookmarks. The type of men who lick their fingers -- their thumbs -- to aide in the turning of pages, thus leaving behind dark stains. -- No thank you!

And East leaned back to the brim of the thin mattress, and his breath caught in his throat, as his hand went unseen, once fishing its way past the fly of his jumpsuit; his prison uniform, bearing his number, but not his name; his real name. And he'd never speak it aloud to the other inmates, nor to the Austrian...should he ever return. 'And God, please let him return!' 

And East felt silly to say a silent prayer while in the midst of relaxing in such a sinful way. 

But he smirked, turning away from the door of his cell. To crouch in the floor, on the other side of his bed, if you can call it that -- a torn fingernail; as slender, and rough as such -- and he worked his hand in quick motions, to ease the pressure and stress of the day outward. From outside his body, and he gasped as his long fingers wrapped about himself, and jerked in such a way, he bit his lip, and shut his eyes, and in his mind, all he could see was a dark violet coat, and a white silk jabot, and that face, that face, that face. 

***

"I'm coming!" the Austrian screamed, as he ran to the door the second he heard a knock against it. And he threw open the door, nearly tearing it from its hinges. "Speak quickly," he said to West, who stood with a bouquet of blue flowers in his hand on the other side of the entrance. "We must be going, yes?" the Austrian asked. 

West -- wearing a dress shirt and dark vest beneath a well-pressed gray suit -- nodded, and thrust the bouquet into the Austrian's hands. 

"For you," said West. "Merry Christmas." 

And the well-dressed blond stepped forward over the threshold, and into the apartment. He nodded, as if to give a delayed response of 'yes', they must be going soon. He peered about the room, and wiped his shoes -- the snow and slush from their toes and tips and heels; their soles -- onto the welcome mat, but there wasn't one?! He peered down with wide eyes, then raised his chin to meet the Austrian's gaze. "I'm sorry I'm late," West said. "And sorry...about your carpet." 

Dirty wet footprints noticeable on the white carpet of the Austrian's otherwise immaculate sitting room. The brownish, matted footprints; the outlines of shoes on downy white carpeting, leading all the way out into the hall. Like a trail of breadcrumbs in a German fairy tale.

"Oh, it's all right," said the Austrian, studying the stains. "I suppose it's all right, anyway," he concluded, and, "I'll get a vase for the flowers. Just give me a moment." And he walked away, disappearing through the doorway into a nearby room, calling out to West, who lingered in the opening of the sitting room, "Have you decided what you want to do today?" 

West nodded to no one who could see him. -- Mr. Whisker Schnitzels having long ago fallen asleep on the green-striped sofa. 

"I thought we might go and see a movie," said West. He fingered at a lace doily on a shelf; a soft piece of cloth with a knickknack atop it. Some porcelain trinket, with real silver about its edges. "You like movies, don't you?"

The Austrian re-graced the room with his presence. "I do," he said, and smiled at the blond in his sitting room. "If you like them, then I do," he sort of laughed, but instead, raised his head, and fussed about with his pristine outfit. His ruffled purple shirt, and his white silk tie. His dark hair neat and shining. He ran his hands across it, touching his hair-curl with the lightest graze. "You think I look nice today?" he asked. 

West nodded again, this time where someone could see it, and he smiled, and a slight blush crossed his cheeks. "I do," he said. "Nice enough to go to the movies, anyway."

Too nice, thought the Austrian, for some ordinary movie theater. But if that's all this man can afford, then why not. -- Why not suffer through some pedestrian film. Some nonsense, and fluff. 

"I don't want to alarm you," said the Austrian, as he gathered his coat and gloves from the slim closet near the front entrance, "but I think it might snow even heavier tonight." He eyed West as if expecting some sort of prize. "Perhaps you'll want to find us a place to stay-put once we leave?" 

"Like where??" asked West; a strange look on his face. Just what did this Austrian expect of him?! And he cocked his head, as if questioning, complete with a crooked brow. "You want to stay here, then?" he asked. "I at least have to make a stop, you know..." 

"Yes, of course," laughed the Austrian, in a forced way, with a fake smile, or maybe it was a real smile and he was hoping it appeared fake to West. "A stop. I remember. I know," he said. "Of course I know..." he trailed off for a moment. "Your brother," he finally said, taking a deep breath, and then sighing. "Of course, your brother. How could I forget?" 

***

East. How _could_ they forget East. Alone, on Christmas Day, and he leaned back against his bed-frame. The elevated bed, floating above the floor, or so it seemed; affixed to the wall. Anchored. And its steel frame housed the paper-thin mattress dressed in rough sheets. 

And East stood from the floor, and withdrew his hand. He walked bent-backed towards his sink. 'What a mess,' he thought, and bent over, further still, to wash his hands with soap and lukewarm water. Humming as he scrubbed. A Christmas carol. A hymnal, perhaps. And he hummed along, and scrubbed 'til his hands felt clean once again. And he scrubbed for ten minutes straight, and still no luck. Scrubbed until every cut on his knuckles and thumbs burned and bled, and he wished he could wear rubber gloves. Don latex. Anything protective. 

***

Into the visitation room, East marched with shackles about his ankles. Short length of chain, and he scooted along, until he reached his blue wooden seat. The thick pane of glass between him and the empty space of room. 

"Ten minutes," the usual guard said, and walked with his back towards the wall; to stand in the far-off corner, and peer on, in anticipation at the happenings in the visitation room; in anticipation of the events he was sure would soon unfold.

The waiting room outside the warden's office was bustling with visitors, most of whom came bearing gifts. Their arms loaded with care packages and presents. Christmas gifts in the form of non-outlawed, yet questionable 'contraband'. But also, a few of them brought along their thick-lined wallets. Bribes for the guards, to let some of the more nefarious items slip through to a prisoner's grasp. To hold in their possession, if only for the duration of the visit. Such as girls in pretty dresses, who wanted conjugal visits for the sake of the holiday. Jesus's Birthday. And who _doesn't_ want to have sex in a dark broom-closet on such a religious day?

Why not. And with dresses pushed up, past thighs, and with backs against the wall, and with quiet hushed voices, and nylon stockings about ankles, and soft cries and pants, who cared if the guards got a little something for themselves? Not only an unofficial Christmas bonus, but also a show, either by watching the X-rated events unfold, or by using the sound of such events to fuel their own imaginations, some of which were just as sick as the imaginations of the many sex-starved inmates. 

Meanwhile, East leaned back in his seat. "I knew they'd come," he said, and he grinned, "I knew they'd make it."

Sure enough, into the visitation room walked West. Past the door held open for him by yet another dark-clad guard. And the heavy door slammed shut, and a metallic clinking could be heard from the other side. Locking him in. And on the outside, stood a guard with a gun in his hand. 

"You look well, Brother," West said with a soft smile. A soft tone of voice. A slight tinge of insincerity, though.

He glanced away, focusing on the unarmed guard against the wall. "I didn't bring a gift today," West said to the usual guard, and the guard motioned with his hand to continue the visit anyway. 

"I'm sorry, Brother," West said, turning his attention back to East on the other side of the glass barrier. "I hope you'll forgive me."

East lunged forward in his seat. "You mean you didn't even bring the Violin Boy with you?!" he screamed, and gritted his teeth; angry at himself for raising his voice, and he laughed, uncomfortable, and glared at the guard. "I didn't mean to," he said, and the guard returned his glare. 

"Just continue!" the guard huffed with his jaw clenched. "You wanted a visitor, didn't you?!" he yelled. "SO VISIT!" and he touched his night stick. "Or so help me, I'll knock you senseless..." 

East laughed again, and leaned forward as far as he could. "Talk quick, West," he said, "the guards are cranky today," and his eyes watered, and darted about, as he tapped his bloody fingers against the desk. "I was hoping you'd come, and you did," East began to blurt, without stopping for breath, "I knew you would, Brother. I knew you would," and his voice went shrill, but despite the high, sharp tone, he kept the volume low, "But where is the Little Master?! I need him, West...I need to see him again," and then he whispered, "I don't know how much more I can take." 

East leaned back, and one single pained cry emitted from him, before he shut his eyes, and dreamed of smoking on a rooftop; daydreamed of standing on some high point, overlooking a city, blowing smoke into a night sky, or at sunset, and below, a city bustling. Below, a city alive with people, and faces; ideas, and thoughts. A place alive, and not contained within hard, haunted walls. Behind walls, and chain-link fences topped with barbed wire. Heavy iron gates, blocked by men bearing guns -- machine guns -- in little towers, ready to aim, shoot, and fire when ready, and like soldiers, the prisoners marched to the spot where they were told to stand. 'And sit when we tell you, and sleep when we tell you, and eat, and don't dream, and keep your hands clean, and to yourself, when we tell you! -- And work hard, and sweat, and break your bent-backs, and lean back in chairs, and visit, for ten minutes, but only when we tell you!!'

And on the rooftop, in his daydream -- born, and faded, all in one instant, yet it seemed to stretch on for an eternity -- East saw Vienna, or maybe Venice; someplace romantic with a 'V' -- and he saw the violinist, and the bow, and the whistle, and...he wished God was listening earlier, and thought maybe, had he not sinned...maybe, just maybe, West would have brought along the Pretty Boy with him.

"Don't cry, Brother," West said, recognizing the shaking his big brother often exhibited right before bursting into tears; the way his chin scrunched, and his bottom lip quivered. The way he always kept his eyes shut tight, lest anything leak out. "I promise, I didn't bring you a gift, but I did bring you something..." 

And West nearly toppled his chair as he leapt from it; crossing the room, to the heavy door, and he knocked upon it. After a moment, the door flew open, and West stepped into the hall, to wave at a man unseen by the shut-eyed East and the ever-watchful guard. 

Seen only by God -- or the idea of him -- who never seemed to listen to East's prayers. ' _Please God, don't let them take the best of me..._ ' and if only he could lose his virginity before his fellow inmates could make a meal of him.

A thought he'd later return to -- cling to -- for into the visitation room, thanks to the waving of West, walked the Austrian. 

"Hello again, East," he said.

Opening his eyes, East jutted forward in his seat, only to shut his eyes again as if to relish the moment. 'That voice...that face. IT'S HIM,' thought East, and he grinned so wide, tears finally broke loose, and released themselves onto his cheeks, like tears from clouds; from angels on high -- too high to see -- and he cried, the poor man. He cried at the sound and sight of the Violin Boy.

'What a sissy,' thought the guard, but he laughed, and he himself was relieved! 'Thank God he came,' the guard said of the Austrian in his own silent prayer. 

And West, too, was relieved, for the Austrian had first refused to come and see East. Was angry, and silent, and fuming in the passenger seat of West's vehicle, when he realized, once arriving in the parking lot of the Grover Downs Reformatory -- a nice way to say penitentiary -- that the two were not, in fact, going on a date to the movies; for a Christmas Day showing of some dreckish piece of Hollywood fluff, but were, in fact, venturing only to the countryside -- a nice way of saying the 'wrong' side of town -- the outskirts of town; into the underbrush, or underbelly, beneath a blanket of snow, no matter how castle-esque the weather rendered it, the mere sight of the prison made the Austrian freeze; to realize it was all just an outing to the 'pen' to see East, the Austrian first refused to leave the car, so West pretended to swallow the keys.

When that wasn't enough to convince or coerce the Austrian from unpinning himself from the passenger seat, West slid the keys down the front of his pants. 'Now then,' West had said, 'you can't reach in for them, because my cute Italian boyfriend would break your wrist for that!' and the Austrian looked so angry, he might as well have been slapped! And ashamed, and embarrassed, he was, for ever thinking West was interested in being anything more than just friends. Acquaintances, at best.

And he had only strung along the Austrian, because yes, East had asked him to keep the Violin Boy close; and close, West had kept him. Pretending to be interested in him. To keep him close, for his brother's sake. For the sake of his heart, and for the sake of hope. For the sake of someday getting out of this place, and reaching the other side, where the light shines in, not sideways, and longways and slender, through barred small windows, to barely grace the tips of torn fingernail-akin, rough-sheeted beds. But where the light shines in full, and in solid bursts. Where the light shines in, and warms you. Atop rooftops in any city, romantic or otherwise, starting with any letter it damn well pleases, and God _always_ hears your prayers. No matter how clean or dirty your hands are; whether they appear that way, or whether you feel or fear them to be dirty; whether they're bloodstained or not; whether they crack or split, or bleed and burn; whether you use them to please yourself, and hope to God, no other man uses you, and your innocence, to please themselves. Their sick desires, and hateful way of thinking. And God knows, East was a man with the most romantic of ideas. Fleeting daydreams. And no matter how vivid they may be -- as vivid as the painting, born from the clean hands of the kindergarten teacher; the Italian, who was home in bed -- nothing makes dreams come to life, quite like the charitable acts of family and friends. 

And so into the reformatory, walked the man with his nose in the air. The Austrian, as he had trailed two feet behind the German in his tasteful attire and dark overcoat atop a gray suit. And his slicked-back blond hair. His smug smile, and God damn it, he deserved to feel smug. He won, didn't he? He won the heart of the Austrian: so what if he toyed with him a bit? Made him do as he pleased, for the sake of his brother. And he led the Austrian by an unseen leash. Into the reformatory, and to the warden's office, and 'Yes,' the warden had said, 'you two go right ahead. Go and visit Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven. He could use a bit of cheering up. Just last week, we caught him with his hands about his neck, as if he were fighting off an unseen noose. And we worry about him...we think he may be suicidal.' Or maybe the warden had used the word 'despondent', which was the nice way of saying 'suicidal'. And everyone always worries about the 'nice' way to say such realistic things. 

But thinking reality should be embraced; West thinking, 'If brother has a dream to marry this man -- this snob! -- then I'll make sure it happens!!' he had led the Austrian from the warden's office, with the warden's good wishes and blessings. And West had told the Austrian to wait in the hall, until he could see his brother on his own. 

And the Austrian had nodded smug, and coy, and, 'Whatever you say, West,' he had remarked, before pouting, and leaning against the wall of the hallway, filled with visitors, their arms loaded with gifts, and the guard, with his back against the door, and a gun in his hands. 

Waiting for the go-ahead...to walk into the room; in his pure white overcoat, and white-gloved hands. 

The Austrian now slid next to West, to sit alongside him, in the free man's wooden chair. 

West shot to standing, and peered ahead confused, hoping his brother would make note of his annoyance, and his discomfort with the Austrian sitting so close to him. 'It's not like that between us, I swear it, Brother!' he hoped his eyes conveyed to East, who seemed somewhat oblivious to any and every happening in the visitation room, save for the Austrian's face. Ignoring West and his 'look'. Ignoring the guard checking his ever-ticking watch. As time always ticks away, without anyone noticing, too much, how much time has passed, and how much of it is wasted on small and insignificant 'everyday' things. -- As if anything mattered, except for the Austrian's simpering gaze.

"You came, you came, you came," East sighed, and he leaned back again, finally relaxed and relieved, and he breathed deep, and laughed. "I knew you'd come, though," he said. "I wasn't scared or anything."

"Of course not," said the Austrian, but his eyes settled on West, who loomed next to him. "But your brother and I were on our way to a movie, so we just thought we'd drop in." 

"Oh," said East, and he too looked at his brother. "How fun," he said. And his tone shifted into something sharper than he ever thought he'd use in reference to his dear, beloved West. "How nice for you both, then!" 

And East turned to glare at the guard, and he shouted, "Just why can't I smoke in here, damn it?!" 

And the guard unsheathed his night stick from the holster at his hip. "One more crack out of you, and I'll crack your skull!" he threatened.

And East cowered, the poor man. And he broke into pieces. He lied his head upon the desk, and wept, and it was good to cry sometimes. After a year of serving hard time. When you could never let anyone catch you weeping. Lest you be called a 'girl', and if you're such a little girl -- as some of the inmates taunted -- then surely you won't mind if I _treat_ you like a girl. 

And East hid, with his arms draped in an awkward way -- like two pretzels made of flesh -- atop his head. Trying to bury himself in his own skin, and limbs, and his twisted arms, his long fingers, and he curled them atop his silver hair. "Make it stop," he said. "Make it stop, make it stop, I hate me, I hate me, I hate me," he sobbed. 

A broken record, and his mind on holiday in Hell now. And he couldn't see how the Violin Boy could ever get up the guts to face him again, if he was indeed now dating or at least sleeping with his little brother. "You two," East cried out. "But you can't be...?!" 

"Guard!" said West, in the loudest tone one could reach without actually screaming. "These two," he said, pointing to East and the Austrian. "Conjugal visit. Right now," he snapped. And West approached the guard with swift steps. And he pulled out his own thick-lined wallet, and from it, he withdrew a few hundred Deutschmarks. A fat bribe, in lieu of a Christmas gift for his beloved older brother. And he whispered into the guard's ear, while the money changed hands; whilst the stack of banknotes slid from his hand to the guard's outstretched palm. "Just give them twenty minutes back there in the closet," and West looked into the guards eyes with a cold stare, "and I promise, I'll never bring this man here ever again." 

"Yeah," said the guard in a hushed voice, "why get up the poor boy's hopes?" And he winked, but felt a wave of disappointment for Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven. To have his wish fulfilled, and on Christmas Day; in the best, and most fulfilling type of way! Only to never get a chance to see the Austrian again. 

East raised his head, and stared with wide eyes, and a shocked, yet baffled, amused grin, at the Austrian on the other side of the glass. "Oh my God," he said, "my brother just bought me the best Christmas gift ever!" 

And the Austrian's mouth hung agape, as he finally realized just what sort of transaction had transpired. "I can't be bought!!" he said, and he jumped from the chair, and raced towards the heavy door, only to find it locked tight, and it's funny how the armed guard on the other side didn't seem to notice the rattling of its knob, nor hear the knocks against it. Funny. And perhaps that guard had been bribed, too.

\-- To not let the Austrian leave the visit early: under any circumstance.

Yet West was no pimp, nor pawnbroker, nor any shady character, except, perhaps, when faced with making his brother's time in prison a little less bleak. And West rushed towards the Austrian, and attempted to hug him. Or it looked something akin to a hug; the way his arms were wrapped about the Austrian, as soon as he met with him near the door, after crossing the room. "Wait," said West, "I promise you..." and he pulled away, to take the Austrian's face into his hands, "Listen! Will you look at me?!" he begged. 

And the Austrian raised his chin, with tears in his eyes, and his cheeks blood red, "What? You want me to roll over, and be with your brother instead of you?!" he hissed. And he struggled, by thrashing about, to break free from West and his sporadic, as-needed, strong-armed 'embrace'. 

"I won't let anything hurt you ever again," West said. "Most of all, not my brother, all right?" he continued. "Just listen for a minute..." 

And East turned away, a broken half-smile upon his face, but even that, too, soon faded, and he was left feeling sheepish; gazing at his shoes -- his filthy shoes upon the tiled floor -- instead of at his brother, or that face...the broken, red, and crying face of the once beautiful Violin Boy. 

"Just listen," said West, "I want you to go back there, and just hug him...hold him for a bit, all right? Can you do that much, at least?? That's all I ask," West said, in near-silent promises; tears building in his own eyes, "and when it's through, I'll take you home, and...I swear to you...I'll take good care of you. I'll watch out for you always." 

And with the Austrian's back to East in his chair -- East, with shackled ankles, and the guard standing near the broom-closet, waiting to unlock the door -- West graced his hand across the Austrian's wet cheek. "I don't ask for much in this life, either," said West, "but if you want me to be something to you, I will be. Just do this for me...and for him." 

The Austrian nodded. "Fine then," he said, but his eyes narrowed. "You want me to be with your brother, then I will be," he added, yet there was something surly and drunken in his tone. Perhaps one too many shots of Scotch whiskey before they left home. And surely such a man -- based on his appearance -- should be drinking champagne or wine on such a holiday, but no. Scotch whiskey. And it burned his heart, and his lungs, and his throat ever-still. He cringed when he drank it -- every swallow choked down -- and he cringed now, but he made sure to do so before stepping back and turning around to face East on the other side of the window. 

"Are you ready?" he asked, as he slipped the gloves from his hands, and slid them into the warm pockets of his pure white coat. 

"Let's go!" said East, and he smiled, but his heart ached for the sinful nature of the proceedings. For the guilt he felt; as if taking advantage of his brother's charity, 'And just what if this man is a virgin, too?' East wondered. 'And what if the broom-closet is filthy?? Rat-infested?! Oh God,' East cringed, and prayed: 'Please let us only hold hands or something. I'd be happy with that, God. Really, I would be. Don't let my behavior earlier make you think otherwise, God. I just want to be close to him. Smell his hair. Touch his coat. That pretty, perfect coat...'

Like something from the glossy, untouched pages of a freshly-published catalogue. 

And East stood from his chair, wanting to add some semblance of normality to the otherwise awkward exchanges hanging heavy in the air. "I just want to say," East began, "thank you, West," in his sweetest, most loving tone. "Merry Christmas, Brother," he smiled. "I love you, and I've missed you. And tell that cute Italian Sweetie Pie of yours, I love and miss him too," he laughed. "Even if I don't know him," East shrugged, "I do. And tell him Merry Christmas, as well. -- Ah! And I hope Santa Claus brings him a new blank canvas!!"

West nodded and blushed. "I will," he said. "Now go and try to forget about this place for a while."


	5. Chapter 5

The guard approached the broom-closet, with the swishing of keys, as they rattled on a chain, and rattled against each other. Sharp knocking of cold metallic objects. A fat round key ring, and he unhooked it from his belt to unlock the closet. Turning the latch, and kicking the door open and wide, "You two will be the first," he said. And he nodded and winked at East, who had lingered at the desk beneath the window, while bidding his brother good-bye. Watching as West turned without so much as a single word to the Austrian; as he left him to do his 'dirty' work. Slipping into the hall of the Grover Downs Reformatory, to congregate with the fellow visitors or to return to his car for a Christmas Day nap.

"And what about him?" East asked the guard, and by craning his neck, he motioned his head towards the man on the 'free' side of the room. 

"Well...what about him?" asked the guard. "I'll let him pass through, once you're inside."

East responded with a ' _hmm_ ', as he inched away from the glass, but the guard grabbed him by the shoulders of his Prussian blue jumpsuit, yanking him forward with such force, East nearly tripped over his own filthy shoes and the guard's thick black boots. 

"Just be glad he agreed to it," the guard said of the Austrian, and he pushed East headfirst into the broom-closet. The light yet to be turned on, overhead. A dark, small space; a pathetic excuse for a room in which to be close to your so-called sweetheart; in which to lose your virginity, or even to just hold hands, as East had asked God, to please grant him such a favor; on such a religious day. A 'holy' occasion. 

And the Austrian wished West hadn't left the visitation room. He looked about, studying the hard walls, and the large pane of glass, and the dull tile floor, and he shivered at the sight of it; shivered due to a lack of electric heating, and it finally dawned on him: this was a run-down place, without much funding, and there was no care taken to cater to the inmates. 'And why should they be catered to, though?' he thought, in a fleeting moment of bitterness, for his thoughts were fickle, and his mind seemed to twist itself in every possible direction. To the negative, and to the positive. To the possibility of maybe, just maybe, West was telling the truth...and maybe, just maybe, this East _was_ a good man, and being close to him wouldn't be so bad. At least not the end of the world. If all he had to do was hug him, as West had said. _Just hold him for a bit._ Humor him. Be charitable, right? Although the Austrian was sure his name wouldn't be mentioned in the Daily Gazette, due to a guard being bribed on Christmas Day, to allow the young musician to pay special attention, by way of a conjugal visit, to a Prussian-blue-clad, silver-haired inmate. 

And just what did the Austrian care what West's brother looked like, anyway? 

What he'd really like to know is: Just how cute was this Italian boyfriend. 

And why couldn't he meet him?! Size him up. Compare himself to him. 

The Austrian's mind wandered, thinking life was a contest, as the guard looked down at the prisoner on the floor. Cocking his head with an amused albeit sympathetic grin, as East edged his way to the darkest, furthest corner of the broom-closet.

"I'm all right," East said, and he crawled on his stomach like a soldier worming across a minefield, until he reached an empty mop bucket, and elbowed his way atop it, nearly wanting to puke inside it. His stomach in knots over the thought of how bad he must look, and how he hadn't showered today, and had he brushed his teeth? Surely he had.

Still, East licked the front of his top row of teeth, and hoped to God his breath didn't smell bad. Surely it didn't. Maybe like smoke, or some candy he ate, while waiting to be marched into the visitation room. Some peppermint stick -- some red and white 'J for Jesus'-shaped candy cane he had sucked on -- while sitting, and watching as a different guard had un-cuffed his wrists, and shackled his ankles with a short length of chain. 

'Thanks for the candy,' East had told a lady at a desk, before walking in, with an armed man at his side. Before taking a seat, with a locked door shut behind him, before West had joined in, from the unlocked door, guarded by a gunman on the other side. 

'Dear West,' he thought, as he struggled to stand. Finally pushing himself to his feet. Balancing like a tightrope walker taking a sobriety test. Swaying to and fro, in arched shoes, on the edge of a dime. Or so it looked, thanks to his shackled legs.

"And what about this chain?" East asked the guard. "Do I have to wear this damn thing in here, too?! Surely not..." 

But the guard grumbled, and stepped away from the door of the broom-closet. 

"You," the guard called to the Austrian. "Wake up, and come here." 

And the guard disappeared from East's sight. Crossing the small visitation room, to allow the Austrian to pass through the slim door, to the 'un-free' side. To the prisoner's side. And with a clinking of a latch, the door breezed open, and over the threshold, stepped the Austrian. 

"Thank you," he said, as if being allowed to pass unto some cherished and pivotal point in his career. As if his charity work was indeed now encompassing some divine plan. Some conjugal visit with a man damned to the electric chair, and the Austrian was his dying wish; his last meal. And surely it wasn't as bleak as all that. 

No electric chair in East's future. Besides, he wasn't sentenced to death! Only to a forty-year stretch. And at the age of twenty-something, forty years in prison wasn't quite a life sentence, nor a death sentence. Though the latter felt pretty damn close. 

"Just what exactly do I need to do?" the Austrian asked, as he lingered near the guard. "I mean...to prepare myself." 

"If you don't know," the guard began with a funny laugh; shaking his head, and shutting his eyes, to palm his face, and surely his cheeks didn't go red; "I can't tell you," he said. 

The Austrian raised his chin. "Very well then," he huffed. And he pushed his way past the giggling prison guard. To the doorway of the broom-closet, and he peered in, and there on the stained tile floor stood two filthy boots stone-set evenly apart. A man standing upright, and steadied. No balancing act. No tightrope. No dime. 

A man with his mouth somewhat agape, as if breathing heavy. But not panting. No loss of breath. And his forehead was sweating, sure, but he was sweet-enough smelling for a prisoner; his breath scented by peppermint, because it was Christmas, after all, and of course the woman in the waiting area -- the uniform-clad receptionist -- had offered to East free candy. 

The only treat he thought himself likely to receive on the holiday. But no. 

The Austrian in his pure white coat. He stood on the threshold, and he peered into the broom-closet. And East stood peering out in return; waiting for the treat he never thought himself likely to receive in his almost-life sentence. 

"Are you ready?" East asked. 

And with an outstretched arm, the prisoner offered his hand, and waited for the musician's un-gloved palm to reach his scarred fingers, yet...

"Just what do you think I'm going to do with you?" the Austrian whispered; or at least it was said in a hushed tone; a sort of hiss, and God forbid anyone make a mockery of him. God forbid they do anything _more_ than just hold hands. 

But the Austrian offered his hand, as well. And he held out his pale fingers, as if awaiting a kiss atop them. 

"Be gentle, yes?" he said. "No roughhousing." 

"Of course not," said East, and his eyes went wide, and his tone softened. "I would never..." 

And he swore it by crossing his heart; by making a Catholic-esque gesture upon his chest. 'Wallet, watch, head and...?'  No wait.

'Spectacles, Testicles...?!' he flinched, and laughed to himself, thinking, 'Ah, never mind.'

East could never quite remember what he learned during Sunday service. But he did remember the candles lit, and how the sermons lingered on for ages. And the taste of wafers, and the smell of wine. The only alcohol he was served while in prison. How he lied, and claimed himself Catholic. How he went to Sunday service, and confessional, because it was fun, he thought, to confess his sins to a priest. To stand in that little booth -- and come to think of it, the broom-closet wasn't too much wider; not too much bigger -- and he looked around a moment, at that small space; at all the tools and cleaners and chemicals on the shelves. What kind of trouble he could cause, if he truly wanted to. If that was, indeed, in his line of thought. But no. The Austrian stood with his outstretched equally-bare palm, and the only thing East wanted to do was touch the hand of the man with the beautiful albeit broken face, and red cheeks, and smug demeanor, and just what did he _think_ East wanted of him?!

"I want what you want," East said. "To get this over with." 

And the guard appeared, with hands roaming on either side of the Austrian. Crouching a bit, to pat down the pure white coat. To check it for weapons and contraband. 

The Austrian peered over his shoulder, and down his body, to study the guard in the midst of his job; his routine. 

"Just what do you think you're doing?!" the Austrian scolded. "Touching me!!"

"I'm patting you down," the guard said. "It's part of the visit." 

And the Austrian rolled his eyes, and glared at the ceiling; his chin raised, and he groaned, "I can't believe I'm going through with this!" And he cursed himself, and his logic, and his failure to see through West's pretend interest; his feigned attraction to the talented young musician. 

And here he thought West was hoping to get close to him...but to string him along, just to keep him close until Christmas. So he could haul him back to this dreadful place. Just so he could force him into the arms of East, by forcing him to stay, and 'pay' a conjugal visit to an incarcerated heathen. 'No, it wasn't fair!' the Austrian again decided. 'To have to stay in this retched place.'

"Are you almost finished??" asked the Austrian, as the guard patted down the musician's pants-legs.

Reaching the Austrian's shoes, he slid back the sides of each one, by digging his fingers past shiny white leather. 

"I have to check," said the guard, kneeling to the floor. "For knives, and drugs, and what-have-you." 

"But I didn't plan this!" said the Austrian. "I didn't even know I'd be," and he whispered the next word, as if it were a sin to utter it, " _alone_ with him." 

The guard rose from the floor. "Well, he's clean," the guard said to East, and nodded. "But don't think we won't strip search you when this is over with!" he yelled, with a finger pointed at East's face. 

"I know," said East, and he smirked, muttering, "Any chance you can get, right?"

And the guard touched his night stick. "Watch it," he said. 

Stepping away, the guard motioned for the Austrian to move forward into the closet. 

But the Austrian stood stiff on the threshold. As if he were suffering stage fright for the first time in his life. As if he were awaiting a whistle he could blow should he need it.

"Come on," pleaded East in a quiet voice. "Before the time limit." 

The Austrian huffed, and finally stepped into the closet. And behind him, the door was shut by the guard. 

"Twenty minutes," the guard called out to the two men. "Have fun." Punctuating the statement by banging the closed door with his fist.

And as he stepped away, back to his post, "Easiest money I ever made," the guard laughed. Settling in, on a high backless stool, near a barred window, "Christmas," he noted to himself. "Now the wife can go buy more presents!" 

***

In the small dark room, very much akin to a confessional booth, though wider by comparison, East reached out, hoping to find the hand of the Violin Boy. The Man in the Painting. And the prisoner fished about, until he felt fingers. Until he felt skin on skin.

"Your hands are like ice," said the Austrian. 

East laughed. "So are yours," he said. 

And their fingers intertwined. Laced together, and folded; bent to wrap around each other.

East said, "I didn't mean for this to happen, you know," and he breathed deep, and stepped forward the last few inches needed to be near the luxury of that pure white coat. 

"Don't speak to me," said the Austrian. "Let's...just get this over with," and he cleared his well-burnt-by-whiskey throat. "Like you said." 

"Yeah," replied East, and he whispered, "Just like I said." 

And his free hand met the small of the Austrian's back. And he wrapped his arm about him. East hugging at the coat. The man. And that face, he couldn't see, and wasn't that the damn tragedy of it all. A man in a museum, filled with priceless, timeless art, and he goes blind the second he approaches his most favorite painting. The one he had most desired to see up close. And maybe the man goes blind from too much anticipation. From too much excitement. From too long a life spent living in darkness. Laboring beneath delusions of grandeur. To ever dream of this man, in his pristine coat, with white gloves in his pocket, of ever loving him? This sinned man. This bloodstained man. And he clung tight to the Austrian.

Hugging him, East rested his chin on the Violin Boy's shoulder. He turned to kiss his cheek. And did so, with such softness and sweetness, the kiss couldn't be heard. And he held him there. In that small, dark space. In that cell, in its own right. In that cabinet in the kitchen of no man's land. In a kitchen in a cemetery, and just what good use would it be in serving a meal to the dead? To pass out plates to the gravestones?? And just what good use was it, to tease this poor man. To give a prisoner a chance -- _a nice break_ \-- with a gorgeous musician, whom many wanted, and several had. A violinist who slept with women or men as he pleased. And this virgin prisoner who had to watch his back at every moment, lest he be robbed of what little innocence he had left...just what good use was it, really?! To have him sniff the hair of the Austrian. To have him shut his red-violet eyes, and daydream of the day when he would be released, and could build a home for them. 

"I want to marry you, and I want to hurt you," said East, "and I'm not sure what that all means."

"Well, to marry someone," the Austrian began to explain, as if speaking to an illiterate, "is to join them in matrimony. And..."

"No," said East, pulling away from that face...the face of the man before him. And he breathed out deep, only inches away; with one hand still safely placed at the small of the Austrian's back, and the other still embraced with the hand which once held the violin bow so gracefully...yet now, it was ice cold; frigid, and no wonder this man always wore gloves! 

"I know what marriage is," said East. "I meant..." he leaned in close again, but this time not resting his head on the Austrian's shoulder, yet...he leaned in close, as if ready to kiss him. "I meant," he said quiet; he spoke soft, and with each word as pronounced and poetic, as if he were breathing his dying breath, "I meant...I don't know why I want to bring you down to my level, when my level is Hell," he sighed, and maybe he _was_ in a confessional booth. All the odd things he longed to admit. "I want to marry you! Doesn't that mean anything to you? You're too good for me," he blurted. "But I want to hurt you, because..." he lowered his head, before finishing, "West." 

The Austrian laughed. "Your brother?!" And he let go his hand, or tried to. Forced to yanking it away from East's grasp. "So you want to hurt me because of your brother??" he scoffed. "Should I get the guard in here with us? Perhaps you're turning violent, and I won't tolerate any sort of outbursts from you! And don't think for a second you can bring me down to any level _you're_ on, and..." 

The Austrian spoke in long spurts, reprimanding the prisoner, but little did he know, East was now smiling. Just to be near him. Just to hear his voice. And it was almost like music. The way the Austrian went on, and on, and on...and it felt good, really, to be reprimanded by someone who wasn't armed. By someone who couldn't hurt him at all. Except for his heart; not his body. No physical pain. Only emotional torture, but the Austrian could only do so much damage, in such a small space. To a man who was used to pain. Who was used to fear. And at least the Austrian was here in front of him, showing some semblance of care. Unarmed, and his speech, unabridged. He couldn't force him to do anything; he couldn't beat him: not without a night stick. He couldn't punish him, except with cold stares, and a sharp turn of the nose or chin, or with his icy cold hands, should he strip East clean of his Prussian blue jumpsuit, and decide to tickle him. 

"You're cute," East said, interrupting the Austrian's barrage of comments and insults. 

"Cute," the Austrian echoed. "Well..." he said, blushing and baffled. "You're..."

"Quite the character?" East asked. Repeating the phrase the Austrian had applied to him at their previous meeting; their first real encounter. "You said I was quite the character, and I wasn't sure what that meant, either," East admitted. "But I think I know what you mean...you're quite the character, too," he said. "A cute character," he whispered, and a grin crept across his face. "And I think I want to kiss you after all," he said. 

East rubbed his thumb across the Austrian's mouth, and then up along his cheek, circling it down, until his thumb found its way back to the Austrian's bottom lip . "You can just...pretend you like it, all right?" East said. 

And he slid his fingers into the brown wisps of hair at the back of the Austrian's neck, and with his other hand, he clutched tight to the pure white coat; to the coat's side; to the Austrian's hip, and he pulled the Austrian in for a kiss. To press his lips to the open mouth of the expectant Austrian. And what else can you do, with your lips pressed to an open mouth, but slide your tongue to whatever small space needs to be filled? 

And so he did.

The two kissed.

But for a fleeting moment, East feared the Austrian would bite down. 

' _Just how far down your throat do you think I can cram myself before you forget to breathe?_ ' 

And with those horrid words circling in his mind, East pulled away, to ask in a quiet, yet shrill tone, "You _can_ breathe, can't you?!" 

And the Austrian laughed, God help him. "Of course I can breathe!" and he clutched tight to his chest; to the pure white coat, and he blushed, and looked to the floor. "You're so silly," he said. "Honestly..."

The Austrian, finding a certain amount of charm in the naivety of East, raised his head, and tilted his chin, standing on tiptoes to recommence their kiss. "Go on," he whispered. "Finish what you started," he teased. 

And that was all East needed to hear. All he had wished to hear! 

And he hugged the Austrian, in his precious pure white coat, and pulled him close, and within his arms -- his embrace -- he clung to him, closer and tighter ever still, and didn't want to let go for all the cigarettes or girly magazine in the world; despite all the freedom, and privilege, and innocence, and 'protection' they could bring. 

The sweetest liberation -- the best Heaven he could hope for -- was right there in the arms of the Man in the Painting. The Violin Boy. That face near his own now, and East kissed the Austrian again, both with their eyes shut, and mouths somewhat agape, and it's amazing how quickly twenty minutes can pass, when you're easing your way to the floor of a broom-closet, with a perfectly good stranger in your arms. In your wake. And you can't kiss them long or hard enough! And you knock over a mop bucket with your feet, as you outlay your body atop them. And you paw at their cheekbones, and rub at their jawlines, and find yourself kissing at their neck. Breathing deep. And, "I think you should stop this," said East, breaking the kiss, "before I go any further." 

"I'm not complaining, now am I?" asked the Austrian.

And that was the second thing East needed to hear, on that Christmas Day, in that broom-closet -- in that small space -- where East rubbed his hands up the Austrian's chest, and confessed his sins in the ear of the Austrian, only by way of some sound akin to purring. Perhaps a distant cousin to whimpering. And some throaty sighs for good measure. 

'You're not going to believe this, God, but I want more than what I asked for,' East prayed, as he unbuttoned the Austrian's coat. 'But I know I don't deserve you...I don't deserve you, I don't deserve you...' and he slid his hand past the white wool, and felt the ruffled shirt underneath, 'my hands aren't even clean,' East scolded himself. 'My hands...' 

So East bit at the shirt, and what an odd thing to do, he thought of himself and his actions, yet...due to the jarring reprimand he suffered in his own mind, he continued to nose upwards, mouth agape, grazing his teeth at the thin fabric. 

A candy wrapper too stubborn to let you open it -- too tough to remove -- so you sink your teeth into the crinkly cellophane to rip it. And likewise, East tore a hole in the Austrian's shirt. 

It all went unheard by the Austrian; but East knew. He smiled to himself, and, 'I knew I could break you. At least some part of you.' 

He kissed at the bare spot of skin, thinking, 'At least I could leave my mark on you.' And East blew his breath onto the pale inch of flesh. The one place he could uncover, and get to. So very near to the Austrian's heart. So very close, to the silver cross he wore about his neck, where the whistle once sat. Should any of the prisoners try and get close to him. And now...Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven was right atop him; outstretched and outlaid, and the mop bucket spilt, and thank God it was empty; thank God East hadn't puked in it, and it's funny: there were no brooms in the broom-closet. No mops, either, to match up with the bucket. Nothing to use with the bucket, should someone need to mop up a spill. And the chemicals were harmless. The 'cleaners' were simply water; spray-bottles, refilled once emptied. And East kept his eyes shut, which seemed pointless, considering the lights were turned off, overhead, but he kept them shut lest he see the Austrian -- should a miracle occur, and God shine a light down from Heaven -- and he didn't deserve to see the treat he was given. Thanks to West. Thanks to charity. And this Violin Boy tasted sweet, and smelt sweet, and, "You're giving me a lot more than I thought you would," said East as he lifted his head. 

"I don't really care," said the Austrian. "It's not like this is _new_ to me," but he had tears in his eyes, unbeknownst to East. And it was all the Austrian could do, to keep them from streaming down his cheeks. "Just getting it over with, right?" he asked. 

East nodded. "Me too," he said. "West is so silly sometimes, too, isn't he?" 

The Austrian sighed. "He's even worse than you." 

Reaching down, the Austrian dug his hands into East's silver hair, as East retreated, nudging his way to the Austrian's waistline. Nosing at his belt. Biting at the leather. Fiddling at the gold buckle with his teeth.

"Worse than you could ever be," said the Austrian. 

And only that, East did not need to hear.

Narrowing his eyes, he halted his effort to undo the Austrian's pants without the use of his fingers. 

"Just what did you mean by that?" asked East, and he pulled away, to sit on the tile, sort of sprawled and sulking. A kid told to quit playing with his new toy, but it's Christmas morning?! _What else am I supposed to do with it..._

"Time's up!" the guard screamed from the other side of the broom-closet door.

"See?" said the Austrian. "I never get what I want." 

And maybe if he had gone through with the whole thing; maybe if he had 'slept' with East, then West would be grateful. A martyr, in the sexual sense. To give himself to the prisoner would mean something -- or someone -- greater waiting for him, back in the comfort of his home. Not on the stained floor of a filthy broom-closet, with an inmate who tasted of peppermints, sure, but who kissed like a house burning down, and you're trapped on the second floor. A dusty box in an attic; a box too empty, and unlabeled -- so who can know, for sure, if it's even worth saving -- and you let it go to the fire. To Hell. And the house burning down...not enough time; why risk your life to save something you're unsure of.

And East also kissed, the Austrian thought, like a man on death row. Too quick, and too sharp, and too...desperate?

'How unfortunate for him,' the Austrian deemed. 'Too forceful for _my_ delicate taste.' 

"But you shouldn't talk bad about my brother," East said, just as the door to the broom-closet clicked at its latch, and the door swung open. 

"To your feet," commanded the guard.

And somehow, despite the chain at his ankles, East shot to standing in an instant.

"Gladly," East said.

And within his heart, a dream died, and there was a painting left waiting in his cell, he couldn't wait to return to, and tear down. 


	6. Chapter 6

East marched back to his cell, his wrists handcuffed, and his skin raw and red from the strip search and shower he had been forced to take. His jumpsuit wet, and sticking to his skin. Rough on his thighs, where the fabric rubbed too close for comfort, causing a rash. And he coughed as he stepped into his cell. Sickened by the hollow ache in his chest, as the new guard who walked him 'home' unfastened the cuffs, and slid the door of iron bars shut, behind East, and locked it with a familiar clanking of keys.

"I hope you enjoyed your visit," the new guard said. "You won't be granted any more liberties today, thanks to that little stunt you pulled."

And the new guard leaned back, and then forward, and through the bars of the door, he spit in East's face. 

It slapped his cheek, and East shut his eyes, as the spit inched down slow, like a snail crawling, spreading clear slime to his jawline. 

"Merry Christmas to you, too," said East.

And after the new guard laughed, and disappeared down the assembly line of prisoners to release for the visitation day, and for the Christmas festivities -- including extra time in the movie room and game lounge, and food fit for peasants, but with the added bonus of cake, no matter how under-decorated and poorly baked -- East sighed, and grabbed a stained, yellowed rag from the ledge of his tiny sink.

Wiping his cheek, he turned, and tossed the rag to the floor. He brushed his teeth two times in a row. Careful not to look at his own reflection in the tiny mirror; the unbreakable glass. He then tossed himself onto the bed. Pulling the sheet over his body. Covering his face. 

'Dear God,' he spoke in his mind, 'You think I did something wrong? The guards sure seem to think I did.' 

And he switched to a different recipient for his thoughts; thus speaking to West, instead.

Composing a letter, never to be sent; composing in his head:

> 'Dear West,
> 
> How could you.'

He didn't have the heart to finish it.

***

Through the snow falling down, and through the snow on the ground, the Austrian trekked from the prison with long strides and careful steps, back to the car: parked and waiting for him. The interior warm; the engine running, and the heater blowing as hard as it could manage, with only a few miles worth of gas left churning through its insides. 

'You could have driven up to the entrance,' thought the Austrian, 'but at least you didn't leave.'

And he approached the car, with his hands stuck deep in his pockets. His hands gloved, once again, for they felt so soiled. They needed to be covered! Oh the places he had dared to touch. The man in his arms. The man above him. That face, and how it looked almost relieved at the sight of the guard on the threshold. 'Time's up,' the usual guard had said. And East in the corner. Sitting like a child on the floor of a kindergarten classroom, knowing damn well playtime is over, and it's off to the closet with iron bars, and a slender bed, and one set of rough sheets. Time out, and time alone. And maybe East liked to be alone. Enjoyed solitude. God knows, the Austrian enjoyed it...or at least, he swore he did.

'I'm sure prison is not so hard,' he thought. 'Once you get used to it.'

And in his pristine white coat, the Austrian reached the car, and grabbed the latch to the passenger side door. Pulling the latch upwards, but the door wouldn't budge. 'What gives?!' he thought, and peered down through the passenger window. Making a sidelong glare at the man behind the wheel, the Austrian tapped his palm against the glass.

"Let me in!" he said. "It's cold out here..." 

***

East pulled the sheet from over his eyes, and looked up at the painting still pinned to his wall. Wishing a wave of light and heat would grace its way through the barred window of his cell. And in doing so, fill the room with light and heat, to melt away the wad of chewing gum used to stick the painting to the wall. Sticky and affixed through a rubbery substance. And maybe it was spearmint. The green glob of chewing gum used as sticky putty. Used as a thumbtack. And the heat and light would melt away the gum, and the painting would fall, like a feather from a dove, and slip its way in clever circles and swirls, like snowfall from the sky, and skid its way to the underneath of the bed. To the confines, unseen, on the other side of the anchored-to-the-wall, bed-like structure. To call it a bed was to give it too much credit and praise. A shelf for a man. A slab of hard, steel-like substance; a slim structure anchored into concrete, and everything was hard and cold, and anchored away, to hold everything and everyone and every dying hope into place.

The painting on the wall. The painting of the man. And in it, he played the violin. His bowed head. That face. And the colors were vivid, still, yet the signature in the bottom right-hand corner bore the faint initials of the sweet Italian boyfriend of East's brother. And just what was he doing on this Christmas afternoon? East wondered. Probably not lying in a stiff, rough-sheeted bed. And East tossed onto his side, lest he look up at the painting a second longer. Lest he rise again, to tear it from its pliable hinge, and rip it to shreds.

'You think you're better than me,' East mumbled into his bed-sheet; how he grasped to it, with his balled-up fists. How he nuzzled it to his neck, like a wilted noose; like the eventual noose it is. And how he crammed it into his mouth, and bit down upon it, and using his teeth, like the animal they made him feel himself to be -- the animal they made him out to be -- East bit down, and wondered, just why did they have to treat human beings like animals. Why did they have to spray them down with ice cold showers on Christmas Day? To remove what?! All the good things. All the pleasant scents. All the madness and mayhem of twenty minutes in a closet? As if you can call it that. As if it was anything straight out of a stag film. As if it was anything pornographic! He had done worse, or at least equal, in his youth, while fooling around with girls, before knowing...just what he wanted out of life, and romance, and love.

And he bit down hard on the sheet, and pretended to floss his teeth with the threads. How every single one was probably laced with dust, and germs, and dead skin. How every single one -- how every pore of the fabric -- probably housed some incurable disease, leftover from the hospital days of this prison. And the ghosts couldn't sleep without their disease-riddled bed-sheets. How the ghosts couldn't sleep, and the dead can't eat, and _You Can't Take It With You_ was playing at a high volume, projected onto the thin fabric screen in the movie room, where the prisoners -- all but East, and the ones in the visitation room, or in the broom-closet by now -- were loafing about, sitting on their haunches, and watching an old Hollywood movie, and eating cake, and it all seemed so cheap and fake. This Holiday Season. This host of good cheer. And it was this very time of year when East once decided, 'I won't be fake. I won't pretend,' and maybe, just maybe, 'It's okay to be alone in this life. -- It's okay to enjoy it.' To be alone. And be happy as such. To walk the streets boasting, 'I'm so glad I have no one!' And East _had_ no one, ever -- at least not in the physical sense -- not even during those youthful days at parties, or in the bedroom at a girl's house, because no one in his life knew he was gay, or what he preferred, or what he wanted at all. He was an enigma. Not solely due to his sexuality; just in general. A mystery no one could figure out, because he wouldn't speak his clearest, most personal thoughts out loud. All in his head. Composing letters in his mind. Writing in diaries. Keeping it all to himself. His body to himself. His mind, and his heart, and his past; his history, it weighed on his shoulders, the way he pushed at others to keep away; keep their distance, lest he confuse them, or hurt them, and he fell in with a crowd of guys who didn't care what he said or what he did, as long as he went along for the ride. And he did. Always staying out later and later, and it was fun: living like that. Always on some wild adventure. What kind of trouble they could get into. Staying out all night, and finding some place to break into. Finding something to steal, and to sell, and to buy, and the drugs. Oh did they pass the days and nights with whatever could blind them. And East clung to the sheet, and bit down hard, and wished it would fill his lungs with liquid too dense to breathe. And he wished his veins were filled with chemicals. He wished a lot of things. 

***

Outside the parked car, with the motor running warm and loud, the Austrian knocked upon the window again. "LET ME IN!" he repeated, and as he pulled at the latch a second, no third time, the German behind the wheel of the car, finally leaned over, and unlocked the door.

"Get in, already," West said, and breathing out heavy, sort of laughing at himself; blushing, "I'm sorry," he added, shaking his head, "I didn't realize it was locked." 

"Were you asleep?!" the Austrian asked, as he threw open the car door, and slid into the passenger seat. Looking down, and leaning back, and sighing. "I was waiting there...just waiting!" he snapped. "What a waste of my time. My precious time!"

And he pulled the door towards himself, slamming it shut; quick to re-lock it. Quick to tug at the seat belt, and fuss about with the dial to the heater, and with the openings of the vents. "I nearly froze to death!" the Austrian screamed. "And just what did you think you were doing, leaving me back there all by myself?!" 

West tried to smile, but it hurt his cheeks. Not one for smiling. Not one for showing any semblance of emotion. He reached out and thought of placing his hand atop the Austrian's hand, or maybe his knee, or some inch of his body that wouldn't offend the Austrian; some inch that would comfort him, but without giving him yet another shred of false hope. 

"I'm sorry," West said. "Really, I am." 

The blond shut his eyes, and inhaled deep. Leaning back in his seat, and tears almost formed, as he cursed himself beneath his breath. "I thought..." he began. "Well...I'm not sure what I thought."

"No," said the Austrian. "You didn't think at all! That's exactly what's wrong with you!!" and he reached out, and slapped at the rear-view mirror, then grabbing it, he twisted it towards himself, to peer into it, as if he were a lady checking his lipstick, but he wiped at his cheeks, to check them for any sort of stains: perhaps fingerprints from a prisoner, like grease-stains or bloodstains, or God only knows what a prisoner might have on his hands, and thus smeared onto the skin of the upright aristocratic-by-birth musician. "You and your brother," he said, pushing away the mirror to again face the back-dash, once satisfied his face was clean, and clear, and as perfect as it could be. As perfect as it _should_ be. And he returned his gaze to the German in the driver's seat. "Neither one of you ever thinks!" he huffed. "I haven't known you long, but I know you well enough, and neither one of you!!" he said, cutting himself short a moment, due to labored breaths. "You really...are disgusting," he seethed. 

West's eyes shot wide, and he turned to face the angry Austrian in the passenger seat. "Disgusting??" he asked. And he grimaced, and glanced to the steering wheel, setting his heavy hands upon it. Grabbing tight, and squeezing, almost twisting at the leather. "No one's ever called me that before," he said. And he shut his eyes again, and leaned forward, as if bowing his head. As if kneeling at an altar, and by way of guilt, was forced to bow his head to pray. "Disgusting," West repeated. "Well...I guess you're right," he said, and he opened his eyes, only to paw for the start of the seat belt at his side. And he fingered at the fabric, to find it, and pull it across his chest. And into the housing, it fastened with a click, and he pulled at it again, as if to loosen it, or in want of it not pinching so tight to his chest; to his heart. And it ached, to be called such atrocious things, as 'disgusting'. As if he needed to run and wash his hands, or bow his head, and when he got home -- he made a mental note -- he was sure to don gloves, and scrub his whole kitchen, before preparing his Christmas feast for his cute Italian boyfriend, who was sure to come over, and dine with him. Stay the night. Sleep in. And comfort was coming; sure, it could be had; it could be found; the day could be salvaged! It was only a matter of time, and patience, and good will -- good cheer towards men -- and just what if West spent all his gift money on East a good present? What was so disgusting about wanting his brother to be held, and feel loved, by a gorgeous man who was too damn smug for his own damn good?? Thinking himself better than East, and only wanting West. But what of his making a deal, and going through with it -- to what extent, West had no idea -- only to turn around and call the one he deemed the 'better' brother 'disgusting'?!

'Well, what of it,' West finally decided. But in hopes of easing the ache in his chest, and in hopes of calming the Austrian's wrath, "I didn't plan it, though, I hope you know," he said. 

"Oh?" asked the Austrian in a patronizing tone, "You just always carry that much money with you? To buy prostitutes for your brother?!" And he leaned down to untie his shoes, and cast them off into the floorboard. To draw his legs into the passenger seat, and curl up, like a spoiled housewife who's walked one step too many, in a pair of expensive high heels, whilst out shopping on Christmas, for presents and gifts for someone she deemed unworthy. But wouldn't she be quick to brag about how much money she spent, and how much work she did for charity? Gifts for the orphanage. Gifts for prisoners. And why were the former so admirable to assist, yet the latter so sinful to be amongst? A forgotten man is no less in need of love than an abandoned child, yet...the children DID deserve more, and they still had a chance. A chance for a break, and a change, and a decent future. And the paintings affixed to their walls were those created by their own clean hands. And the paintings could speak volumes of their talent, and tell stories of their childlike daydreams, and imaginations, yet...at least one of the prisoners in Grover Downs Reformatory had vivid dreams, and a grand imagination, and come to think of it, just what was so wrong with worshiping a painting you didn't paint yourself; what was so wrong with falling in love with a stranger, as if he were a fictional character? As if hanging all your hopes and dreams upon him -- upon his face -- was such a bad thing? To idolize him. To want to be with him, and marry him, and build a home for him. To never leave his side, and yet...the children in the orphanage were eating cake, too, in small, under-heated, and equally haunted rooms. The children were watching old movies, and wishing to God they weren't so lonely, and hoping for visitors, and bright futures, and the only difference, really, was they didn't deserve their unhappiness, their pain, but really, no man or woman or child did. Yet. The children didn't buy it. They didn't trade in their lives; they didn't give up freedom or happiness, for the sake of a good time; they didn't break the law, nor shoot another man, in the midst of a drug deal gone bad. They didn't kill a man -- an undercover cop -- and what if East didn't need money so bad, once upon a time, to help someone near and dear to him? And what if West didn't feel the constant need to return the favor?? What if.

 _'You can't take it with you_...' but money can buy a lot of things in life. Money can buy your freedom, and your incarceration. Money can buy pain and disappointment. Money can buy you twenty minutes of time in a broom-closet with your so-called, pretend, and make-believe sweetheart. Money can buy refuge, for twenty long minutes, to check your breath, and kiss a man, and bite a hole in his thin purple shirt, and what if East had left teeth-marks on him? Now he was his. Damaged goods, and _'If you break it, you've bought it!'_

But West was the one with blood on his hands. He turned, and he peered out the driver's side window. He peered up at the iron bars on the small windows of the prison. He turned, and looked up, and hoped to God he could catch a glimpse of East, waving down from the window to the parking lot below. And to the snowfall at the foot of the castle-esque building. To the snow atop the bushes, and atop the hood of the idling engine. To the snow beneath the tires of the car ready to drive off into the last breaths of daylight, and soon night would fall, as the snow slowly did. And the land would go dark, and the eyes of the Austrian would soften soon enough, after more whiskey was drank, and a phone call or two came in. And 'They remembered, they remembered', he could rejoice, over the men and women he had slept with, calling to tell him 'Merry Christmas', and he wouldn't feel so sheepish, and alone, and cold inside, for letting himself get close to other human beings. Growing up with cold parents, and being taught: keeping your emotions to yourself is always best, lest you make a fool of yourself. What a bad way to grow up; it was isolating, to always have to pretend you didn't give a damn what others thought or wanted or needed. To think a prisoner would get used to his surroundings; to even come to enjoy his isolation! His punishment. As if suffering abuse ever gets easier. And even after a year of being locked away in a bleak prison, it never got easier. A weight upon your shoulders may get easier to carry, once you're used to the weight, and the pain it causes, to bear it, but you never grin because you want to express happiness, nor do you take joy in your discomfort, but it's easier to hide your emotions beneath a slight smile or a stone-set countenance, in order to let those in the world around you 'know', or think, or labor under false beliefs, that you don't mind it. Really you don't. And this weight isn't so hard to carry. Really, I'm fine. I don't mind it, I don't mind it, I don't. Don't let these tears in my eyes make you think otherwise. I wouldn't have it any other way...me down here, and my brother up there. 

***

The other half of him. The other side of him. But no, East and West were not twins. 

Their parents named them after countries, sure. To be named after a landmass was an odd and cold way to grow up. To be dubbed the same name as a slab of geography. To bear the same name as some faceless entity on a map. 

East and West. Cardinal directions, and quick! Someone find a compass. I think one brother is lost...

For in his bed, East sobbed with the bed-sheet in his mouth, and at his neck, he found his hands clinging tighter ever still.

And he sobbed with the silent indifference to whether he ever stopped squeezing. Choking all the life and breath right out of himself.

'And I don't care, God,' he prayed. 'Just let it stop, let it stop, let it stop.' 

Let it fall. Let the painting unhinge itself, and flutter to the floor. Let the wall crumble away. For if there is no wall, then how can there be a painting affixed to it? If there is no wall, then the chewing gum will have no where to hinge, and the painting can't float in midair, now can it? Like a hot air balloon suspended on the horizon, and flattened, and 'It must be shot down,' someone would scream. Someone who is afraid of dreams. And we can't float over a wall, if a wall doesn't exist. But if we don't have the wall...if we don't lock away the bad men, then how can we know how good we are? How can we feel safe. How can we sleep at night. Yet. When you lock all the bad men together, the bad men are made worse by the awful men. Not all sins are created equal, and if West was the gunman, just who would believe it? What if West was left holding the smoking gun. What if East hadn't took the blame. What if he hadn't come to this place, to let his brother walk free, and sweet-smelling, with clean hands, into the night, and onto the morning, where a future was waiting, and tossed to his feet...

Where a cute Italian boyfriend loved him, and an Austrian thought West far better than East. 

Their parents always adored West; they always liked him better; loved him more, and just what was war good for, except to rob the brothers of their father. And their mother...well, she went crazy, and was locked away in some hospital. Despondent -- a nice way to say 'suicidal' -- over the loss of her husband, and the loss of other loved ones in the war. And just what _is_ it all good for? To rob a nation of its dreams, no matter how wayward. To rob a people of their hope. And to leave the land barren, and riddled by bullets; to leave a generation of men, and their hearts, war-torn. To leave widows, and orphans. To leave prisoners to their monstrous devices, and most of these men, East knew, were once soldiers alongside his dad. And it's funny, how routine can comfort a man. How marching across a battlefield, surrounded by gunmen, was not so different from marching through the corridors of a prison. If your life is in danger, your life is in danger. But a man on a mission to save women and children; to protect them, and defend the idea of a country, was a far greater reason to march, and bear a gun. It was a far greater future and destiny, to be a soldier rather than a prisoner. And what Hell had East bought, to come to this place. To agree to it, by nodding to West, in the early morning hours, after that Hellish night they spent in the slums of town, after riding around, just trying to decide how they would hide the body. How to dispose of it, and there's another nice word. 'Dispose' of another human being. How to slice the cake into small enough pieces you can fit the whole wad into your mouth. And just how far down your throat do you think I can cram it before you forget to breathe. 

And East tore at the sheet with his teeth, and he stopped breathing, and his eyes shot wide, as he bit down hard, yet...his body went stiff, and he went into a panic. He froze for a moment, then thrashed about, as if having a seizure. Lashing out with his hand, he clawed at the wall, and wanted to paw his way upwards, to grab the Man in the Painting. To grab him by that face, or his un-gloved hand. To grab God by the shoulders and scream into his ear, or no, to beg, to beg, to beg for forgiveness, and wash out his mouth with God's bar of soap, and it isn't clean, and it isn't fair. To have prison guards take advantage of him. To have him on bended knee, on Christmas Day, and to have him take what he can, by way of his mouth, and just what do you do, with parted lips, and a small space to fill? Except lift your head, and let your tongue go limp, and fit in what you can. Let 'em cram it in. And don't forget to breathe, and 'You _can_ breathe, can't you?!' and his words seemed lost now; so distant, and shrill, yet so quiet, and he had screamed on the shower floor, when they tried to take more, and the lady at the desk -- the one who gave free candy to East -- came rushing in, due to all the commotion, despite being told, if she ever interfered, it would mean no promotion to a less dangerous position than the one she held in the waiting room outside the visitation room, yet...she ran in, with wide eyes, and a hand shot to cover her mouth, when she realized what they had did, and the shot to his eyes -- or so they had tried -- had hit his cheek, and like the spit, like slime, slithered down to his jawline, and he shut his mouth, but not his eyes to it all. He wouldn't let them make him swallow it. Nothing that hard to take. Nothing like the Scotch whiskey which burned the Austrian's throat, and sure, he's so refined. The taste of whiskey on his breath, on Christmas day, and he was nothing but a sheep in wolf's clothing, yet his coat was wooly and soft and pure and white, and to touch it again...

Maybe East would be redeemed. Maybe his sin wouldn't count. Maybe his hands would be clean. 

His heart, and his throat. And his mouth...he'd brush his teeth five times a day for the rest of his life. His pathetic existence. Though it may only last for a few minutes more now, he thought, and he bit down, or tried to, subconsciously, through his own tongue. A punishment to himself. For letting it go limp. But thank God all things went limp on that shower floor, and thank God he didn't enjoy it. Of course he didn't! Only an animal would. -- No matter how much they egged him on, and told him to enjoy it. 'Oh, but you like men, so what do you care?! And we know you were with that pretty boy, earlier, so why not give us a bit of action? If you're so hard up, and you're not so bad to look at, Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven, and just why don't you quit fighting it already? You're already here. You're already spent. You're already filthy like the rest of us.' Unarmed or not, the guards and the prisoners walked a fine and filthy line of innocence and guilt. Soldiers marching to a similar tune as their enemy's march. And the drums all sound the same, on a war-torn morning, and just where to hide the bodies? In the trenches, of course! Those are for the living, and the dead could sleep in their shallow graves, and there's really no difference, between a trench and a grave, except in the trenches, the men are afraid, and in the grave...well, the men no longer have a need to be afraid. They no longer feel pain. They no longer have to worry whether or not they can breathe. How long they can hold their breath. Whether or not they were the gunman, or if they gave it all up, to let the guilty go free, and let the innocent die a lonely death beneath a rough sheet, on a bed the size of a torn fingernail, and...

East thrashed about, his chest pounding, and his face hot and flushed and red. He thrashed about, and drew quick sharp breaths. A panic attack. And he repeated the same words over and over in his mind. 'Let it stop, let it stop, I'm so dumb, I'm filthy, make it stop. I hate me, I hate me, I hate me, make it stop...' like a broken record; a bad song on repeat. A record skipping, because the needle has long ago gone dull. And the song is drawn out in callous tones of self-hatred, and want of self-destruction. 

Broken prayers to a possible God above: 

'I don't ask for much in this life, God,' East begged in his mind, 'but please, God, just let me die this time.'


	7. Chapter 7

The car sputtered as it entered the street on which the Austrian lived. His tall apartment building, towering over smaller, less impressive places of residence, and small family-owned, family-operated businesses. Old stone, and old brick, and in a few more decades, it was the sort of block, and part of town, one might dub 'a historic district'.

West parallel-parked the car in front of the stoop leading up to the building's entrance. The engine nearly died, right before West could shut off the motor. "Phew," he said, as the noise emitting from the car died away, and the heaters stopped blowing, and the Austrian looked up through the window, as if checking to see if West had found the right address; as if West couldn't find his way back from the rundown prison to the 'nicer' side of town. -- Perhaps the Austrian would have been happier if West had indeed left a trail of breadcrumbs, like in a German fairy tale.

The Austrian, once spotting his home, outstretched his legs, and leaned forward to grab his shoes.

"We made it," West said. "I was starting to get worried." 

"Starting to," chided the Austrian. "I offered to pay and refuel the car on the way here!" he scolded. 

"And I told you," said West, "gas stations are closed on Christmas Day."

He reached for the lock and the latch of the passenger door -- leaning across the Austrian's lap -- as if to do a favor for him. Something chivalrous. One last note of 'care', and good deed, to mark the holiday; to leave it on a high note. To let him know, 'I'm not always this selfish.' As if West cared what the Austrian thought, yet...he cared for everyone to know, 'I'm not a bad man. Really, I'm not.' 

One final kind gesture. And as West leaned across the Austrian's lap, he sniffed at the pure white coat, and wouldn't it feel nice to touch such a soft fluffy thing? And the apple didn't fall too far from the tree: the two apples which fell. One East, and one West, and both were guilty of so many things, in their own muddled way. Of robbing a man of his life -- West had robbed two men of their lives: the cop and his brother -- and the cop was shot in a panic. To be caught selling narcotics. To be caught dealing out what East usually handled, but on that one particular night-into-morning, West had rode along, and was trying to earn some more money. In desperate need to make a deposit on the house in which he and his brother lived. The house their parents left to them. And there was no will. There was no proof the house even belonged to them. Who knew they were adopted? Who knew, their mother had found them, most literally, in a field somewhere. And sure they weren't twins, maybe not even brothers, in the real sense of the word. But the two children slept together like that, in baskets alongside one another. And a note tucked into their baby blue bedding read: 'I can't take care of these children any longer. Please God, let someone find a home for them.'

And the woman who found them: she took the two boys in to her otherwise childless home. And she raised them as her own, naming them after two countries. The two countries where she and her husband were born. And it's funny, how the father and mother always thought more of the blond in the basket. How they always paid more attention to him. Had higher hopes for him. 

But the boy they assumed was the older of the two, they started to wonder, if he may, in fact, be the youngest. For as the two brothers grew, the silver-haired boy didn't act like the eldest: a childlike, innocent air about him, yet what a boisterous, and cocky attitude! Playful Peter Pan quality; a boy who didn't want to age; a lost boy, wanting to fly away and live with the birds. Such silly things. And he often kept the birds he found, while playing outside their stone house, and he'd tuck them away, at night, in his bedroom, and sing to them, silly songs, annoying his brother. And didn't they need to wake early in the morning, and study? Didn't they need to work hard, and move on and 'up' through life? Only West wanted to go to college. Only West wanted to 'make something' of himself. To make their father proud. And take care of their mother. But. 

The boys lost their father, and then their mother, and they were faced with losing the house. No will. No proof of adoption. No legal claim to the land, or to the residence. It was all slipping away...

And West needed money for the deed to the house and to the land, and money for school, and for a better life for both of them. 

So East did what he could. And he did it in secret for a while. Until West caught on, after the house and land were nearly bought. And East continued to stay out late. And so West rode with him one night. And caught in the midst of a job, by an undercover cop, and West panicked, and shot the gun he was only supposed to hold for protection, should some 'customer' go nuts, or try to rob them. And he shot the officer, and the two brothers sobbed. And they thought of slicing the cake into small enough pieces to cram into a small enough space, where it doesn't matter if you forget to breathe; sliced into small enough pieces, no one could ever find the whole body intact. Small enough pieces to scatter about. An arm here. A leg there. And just who is this man, so split down the middle? Who is this man in pieces. 

And the body laid there a long time; for what seemed like an eternity, and it's amazing no one within a few mile radius heard the gunshot. It's amazing the two brothers didn't get caught. 

Not for a while, anyway. 

But the body was eventually lifted, and housed in the trunk. And on a dark morning, with sunrise on its way, but a storm blowing in; dark clouds lingering and building on the horizon, the boys had not the heart nor the stomach to slice anything longways or lengthwise or sideways; down the middle or otherwise. They took the body from the trunk, and carried it, as if it were an amiable drunk, and tossed it into a nearby river. 

A dumb move. For dead bodies don't sink. Not for long, anyways. 

And life is not a movie. The fish didn't eat it. And the body wasn't weighted with a concrete block tied to its ankles with a short length of chain. And of course the brothers weren't part of the mafia. The brothers weren't part of anything, except a muddled history; two orphans never legally adopted by two parents who loved them. Even if they loved West more.

'Bird Brain,' their father used to call East. And it wasn't until after their parents died, West dubbed his brother with his new nickname. For East had stood on the ledge of that river, with what little rays of sunlight were left lingering from the devoured-by-storm-clouds sunrise shining on his silver hair. Facing east to watch it, and wait for it. Hoping. Hoping for more. More light, and more time. And West couldn't face it. He turned away. His back towards the east, and he faced the west, and some men can't handle death. Some men can't face the future nor the past, nor the bad things in life, except with their eyes half shut, and maybe that's what West liked so much about his cute Italian boyfriend. The way he bungled through life with his eyes half shut. Always smiling. Always happy and optimistic. No blood on his hands. Just paint-stains, and tomato sauce. Always joyful, and beaming over some new culinary creation. Always painting, and humming, and singing. Teaching children. -- What a sweet way to be. Such a nice, and kind, and giving, warmhearted human being. Not like West. Not like East. Not like the Austrian. Yet...

All four men had something to offer the other. More than kindness, or good cheer. More than company on Christmas Day, or any holiday; more than entertainment. More than a violin concert, in an assembly hall, in a prison. More than hopes or dreams, or a painting. More than friendship, or company, between warm and soft sheets. They could offer each other forgiveness. If only West and East had the hearts and the guts and the brave mouths to speak, or at least whisper, their confessions. 

As East had faced the darkening sunrise, and West had faced away, to the west of the sky and the world; his back to the truth, and to what they did, and the body which sank, if only for a while, in that wide and flowing river, the two brothers remained speechless until they climbed back into the car. 'I'll do it,' East had said. 'I'll take the fall. If we get caught,  I'll take the blame. I'll take the punishment. It was all my fault, anyway. -- I'm the older brother. And during the war, I raised you. I took you along for the ride. -- This is my fault. -- And don't be scared brother,' he had said, 'when we get home, just forget it. Tonight, the sun will set in the west, and time will go on ticking. That's the great thing about time. As much as it hurts. As much as you want it to stop sometimes...time never stops ticking. Life is great like that, don't you think? -- It's gonna be okay. It's gonna be fine!' and he had laughed, while crying. Doing both at the drop of a hat. 'We'll just lie and say I didn't know the gun was loaded...and you weren't with me, West. I was alone. I love being alone! -- It's gonna be all right. The river will wash it away.' 

And it's funny how the body stayed hidden until summer. When it was found, a search was declared for a murderer. And someone, fueled by rumors and speculation, pointed a finger at East, who was busy trying to reform. Find a real job. Break away from the bad crowd. But an ex-rival ratted him out, and East was thrown to the mercy of the court. Then he was thrown into prison, around the holiday season. Only a year prior to his meeting the Austrian. And it was a long and lonely year. With his brother outside the prison walls, living the life East could now only dream of.

The sun rising on East, every morning, through the barred window of his cell, casting slivers of broken light onto the floor, the bed, and the painting. The black-and-white photographs of the brothers when they were children. And their dogs. Their home: the one they bought outright with dirty money, sure, but all money is dirty, when you think of how many hands it passes through and from, on a daily basis. And it was earned in a nefarious way. So why not spend what was left of it on dirty things? To buy a prostitute. As if it were as dirty as all that. As if the Austrian was anything but a coward pretending to be a wolf in sheep's clothing. Rich taste, and silver spoons. And the brothers never knew the likes of him, growing up. And now, if he seemed like a novelty, ah well. It was nice to have someone so refined in their midst. And West leaned across the Austrian, and unlocked and unlatched the door. Breathing in deep, and he thought of the sunset they were likely to see tonight -- and soon; in the western clearing sky -- now since the snow had ceased its falling. And now since the car was damn near out of gas, after all. 

"I guess I'll stay the night...?" West didn't quite say, and he didn't quite ask, but it was posed more as a question; a child asking for permission.

For he knew what the Austrian wanted.

And the Austrian knew what West meant. 

"I suppose I'll allow it," the Austrian said. 

***

In a hospital bed, in the prison infirmary, East opened his eyes. His head propped by flat and stale-smelling feather down pillows. Hard lumps beneath his neck, and a lump in his throat. He felt with his hands, to the skin of his neck, and it seemed sore, and he cringed at his own touch. The tender bruises left by the noose he had tried to construct during his last minute of consciousness. The last moment of wakefulness he had possessed, prior to opening his eyes, to spy the white speckled ceiling above him. And he looked about the room, at the two long rows of empty beds; to the one old man, suffering from the flu, on the far side of the room. Otherwise, the infirmary was empty. Bare, except for the rows of hospital beds: all outfitted with thin white sheets, and thick blue blankets. And the one man in a paper gown and dark blue robe. And the man with the flu was sleeping. Snoring, almost. And upon the back of a brown wooden chair, at a roll-top desk, near the door, a lab coat was draped. And upon the desk, East thought he saw...as he struggled to sit up in bed; leaning forward, 'Is that a set of keys?!' he wondered.

Keys equaled freedom. And he eyed them a moment. A long moment. A wave of new blissful alertness cast a sense of euphoria over him. 'I lived, I lived, I lived,' he gushed, yet pondered, 'but how? And why?! And thank you, God! Never mind how or why, just...thank you.' 

And East grinned. He threw back the sheets, and slid his legs to the side of the bed, and jumped to the floor, and stumbled a bit, but ran across the tile, the entire length of the infirmary, until he reached the roll-top desk. Grabbing the keys, he clutched them to his chest. Grasping them like a desperate man with a bell in his hand. And _every time a bell rings_ , a prisoner gets his wings. And the thought of the small birds he saved, after the poor creatures had fallen from the trees in the yard of the stone house the brothers had bought, after losing their parents, and learning, those two people weren't their real parents at all, East imagined the set of keys as a small bird, and placed them near his heart, coddling them. Shushing them. "You're safe now," he whispered. "You're with me." And he shut his eyes, and gleamed, rocking back and forth, on his cold bare feet. 'You're saved now,' he told himself, and he crouched to the floor, and wanted to kiss it, but God, think of the germs!

So instead, East sort of rubbed at the floor with his free hand, as if petting an invisible cat. 'I'm going to walk away from this place,' he realized, and tears filled his eyes, and rushed to his cheeks. 'I'm going to be a free man. If only for today.' 

And he thought; he dreamed; he prayed: 'If they catch me, they can't do any worse damage to me than I almost did to myself. And I'll be all right now. I'll go to the Violin Boy's house, and afterwards, I'll go to the river, and this will all be over. -- It's what I deserve.'

A similar ending. A similar postmortem baptismal. To toss the dead into the water. To let the fish, or God, or the elements; nature: take care of the dead, and the damned, and the lost.

To clip the wings of the birds. To put them in cages. And ringing bells can't give wings to an angel, any more than a dip in a river can bring the dead back to life. And East was long dead inside. Or so it seemed or felt to him now, on Christmas Day -- almost Christmas Night -- and he longed to be held one last time, before dying. To fulfill his wish completely, yet not get married, nor build a house. To not even wait to be properly, officially, and legally released. But...to walk away, a sick man. A man with bruises about his wrists and neck. To walk away, with thread in his teeth, and lesions on his skin, and walk away, with keys in his hand. To unlock the door to the infirmary. A separate building from the rest of the penitentiary. The Grover Downs Reformatory. And it was a sprawling stretch of grounds he would soon have to conquer. Without any shoes, and without proper clothes, for East, too, was dressed in a paper gown and loose, ill-fitting, and foul-smelling dark blue robe, but...surely he could find his jumpsuit. Or surely he could don the lab coat! Something. Anything. 

'Dear God,' he said in his mind. 'Dear God, let me make it this time...and I promise, God, if you let me leave the grounds, I'll go to the same river right after. I'll give myself the same ending. I won't disgrace you any longer. I won't live upon this land. I won't live at all! -- I know you didn't want me to die earlier tonight, but please, God. Let me leave here alone. Let me find him. Let me.'

And East began to plan his escape. He thought hard, but he thought quick, all while clutching the keys to his chest. A twisted creature, he feared himself to be; to hold the keys so close to his heart, and he feared he might as well have dubbed the keys 'my precious', while seething through his teeth. And East had read one too many books, perhaps. One too many epic adventures. But he wanted one last adventure of his own. 

'I'll find the Violin Boy's house, and I'll make love to him, and then I'll end it,' he thought. 'And maybe the Pretty Boy will go with me. Maybe he'll take me to the river himself, and he can watch me jump in. What a lovely way to end it!' he daydreamed, and romanticized, and it all seemed so delicate in his mind. His delusions of grandeur. His pretty thoughts to match that pretty face he still held in such high regards.

A death wish. And what better way to end it, except on a high note. To make love, and lose what he had fought so hard to protect. And East had almost lost the good fight today. And they couldn't reach him now. Now since he was sliding his robe and paper gown to the floor. Now since he was pulling the lab coat over his body. Now since he was rummaging through a nearby closet, to find a suit left hanging in a garment bag, to be sent to the prison laundry, for free service; one of the doctor's suits, and sure it was dirty, and sure it was wrinkled, but East didn't care. 

He freed the brown suit from its wire hanger, and unsheathed it from the garment bag. "Uh huh," he said, "I shall now be a doctor!" And he snickered to himself, pretending he went to college. Pretending he was someone important; pretending he had 'made something' of himself. Some college graduate, like West, and, 'Won't the Austrian be impressed?' he thought. 'Ah, to see his face again...' not behind glass, nor in the darkness and dampness of a bleak and shameful broom-closet. To not have anyone pay for his services. To work pro bono for East, and vice versa. 'We can play doctor together,' thought East, 'and I'll check his heart to see if it even _has_ a beat! Check his pulse...check his teeth, while I'm at it,' and he smirked to himself. All the silly daydreams...and he could breathe just fine now. The panic long passed, and it felt good to have his chest filled with just the right amount of air. To not feel it tightening, nor unable to expand. All was well. He could lift his head. He could see ahead. 'I lived so I could leave this place,' he thought, as he shed the lab coat, and stood naked at the foot of his hospital bed. Pulling the suit pants onto his legs, and up to his waist, to fasten them. And he pulled on the suit jacket, and 'What? No shirt?! -- But that's fine,' thought East. 'I'll still look slick...maybe I can find some white paint, and paint on a shirt!' he laughed to himself. 'No one will get close enough to know the difference. Except for the Austrian,' but ah, who cared; East brushed away the thought, and the worry, and the fear. It was all good enough. 'Good enough for that snob...that beautiful talented snob...that face.' And he thought of it long, and he thought of it with fond memories. Forgetting all about his wish, not only to die -- earlier, alone in his cell -- but his wish for the painting to fall from the wall of his cell. It was all long forgotten now. Replaced by how much he wanted to hold that man again. How he could finally escape this place, and it wouldn't be so hard, he thought. Surely it would be easy! 'I can do anything!!' he boasted in his mind, as he buttoned the jacket, and re-donned the lab coat.

Sliding the keys into his pocket...

'I'll make a meal out of him...my last meal,' East thought.


	8. Chapter 8

In his 'borrowed' brown suit and lab coat, East opened the infirmary door, and edged past it, stepping barefoot into a hall. Careful to shut the door and re-lock it, he lowered his head, and strode through the narrow corridor until he reached the building's proper exit. And it's amazing, he thought, how no one was sitting at the front desk. Maybe they were home for the holidays. Maybe they were on their supper break. Maybe they were in the bathroom, using the facilities. No one knew he was leaving, for no one was present. 

No one saw East, as he opened the next door; creeping through the main entranceway of the small building separate from the rest of the prison. And once outside, he eased the door closed behind him. Quietly. Slowly letting go the knob, and he looked about; up to the darkening sky, and then down to the snow on the ground. 'And it won't be so bad,' he thought, as he took his first step from the concrete slab, and the snow greeted his toes with a stinging sensation of pain, yet it soon faded to numbness. 'I'll just pretend Mom left me alone in a cold bath.'

A fever bath. And in a desperate attempt to break a child's fever, or at least bring it down a few degrees, a poor mom throws her kid into damn near ice water. Lukewarm, perhaps, but it feels ice cold to a kid suffering from a high-grade fever. 

But East never had a real mom. His childhood was a lie, and it was all right. It was fine. Even if he and West weren't real brothers, they'd never know otherwise. It was best to labor under false and fond pretenses. False hope, and false beliefs. Some things are best left viewed only in darkness. 

And darkness was indeed on its way. The sun setting, as East trekked across the prison yard. As he trekked to the nearby parking lot, and crouched down, zigzagging through the trenches formed by parked cars. Staying close to the ground, he walked with bent knees. Staying hidden by way of what few vehicles were left in the parking lot of the Grover Downs Reformatory that Christmas Evening. 

Now if he could just get past the fence topped with barbed wire, and the towers housing the armed guards. 'Surely there's a back way out of this place?!' thought East. And he peered about again, and paused a moment, realizing...maybe he wouldn't need it. 

Maybe his escape plan was too overblown. Maybe the ticket to freedom was right in front of his freezing nose. 

So he reached up, toying with the latch of a parked car. He slid his hand beneath a door handle, and pulled, and wouldn't you know it...

Not everyone was careful like West. Not everyone remembered to lock their doors, while inside the prison, visiting an inmate. 

East opened the door, pretending he was a doctor. Pretending: this was his vehicle, sure, and he was its well-dressed and well-respected owner. In his 'dignified' suit. The wrinkled, dingy, and bloodstained old thing...

Yet East was proud of the suit, and proud of the car, as he slid into the driver's seat. Settling in behind the wheel, and he smiled to himself; grabbing the wheel, like a child with a toy. A 'play car' made of cardboard boxes. And he'd 'drive' about the living room, on Christmas Night, making 'vroom vroom' sounds, as he encircled the Christmas tree. His hands on an invisible steering wheel in his dreams. And he'd color the cardboard in pretty colors with crayons. And he'd beep the horn, 'honk honk', with his shrill voice, and shift gears using a stick shift made of ten pencils rubber-banded together. Shift into drive, shift into reverse, and like Fred Flintstone, he'd pilot the cardboard car with his bare feet.

Brushing away the cartoonish fantasy, East scavenged the dashboard for yet another set of keys. To save him. To take him to the Austrian's doorstep. To the stoop outside his apartment building...

Wherever it may be.

***

Once the passenger side door to West's car had been unlocked and swung open for the Austrian, the German leaned back into his own seat. The driver's seat to a real car: no cardboard here. No pretend noises. No fake gearshift. No feet for wheels, as West exited the vehicle, while the Austrian lingered inside. While the Austrian slid his shoes back onto his feet, and took his sweet precious time in lacing them up tight. 

"Just a minute," said the Austrian, and he hummed to himself, some soft little song, while readying himself for the short distance walk from the parallel-parked car to the stoop of his building, only a few steps away. 

And West locked and slammed the door behind him, and walked the length of the car, circling around the back end -- the trunk -- and whatever, or whomever, it once housed was no big deal now, right? -- _Or was it, West??_ \-- Surely it didn't weigh on his mind. Surely it didn't haunt him. And he huffed, and took a deep breath, and yep, everything was fine. 

He paced the length of the other side of the car; up to the passenger door standing ajar. 

"You are coming, aren't you?" West asked.

The Austrian nodded. "I'm ready now," he said, and stuck his hand out into the air, as if expecting someone to kiss the top of it. Curved down fingers, and graceful -- ever graceful -- and 'Here you are, my good man. Take it. Kiss it. You've got to start somewhere.' 

And his gloved hand was met by the reluctant hand of West. "Fine, fine," West said, as he grasped the Austrian's sloped fingers. Offering a loose hold about the dainty palm of the musician, who somehow still seemed, and appeared to West, hellbent on not leaving the vehicle.

A sweat broke out on West's forehead, as he stood with the Austrian's hand in his own. Holding it as delicate as he could, yet he pulled, so the Austrian's outstretched arm would feel a gentle tug, and he'd finally emerge from the passenger seat: not abruptly, but like a prince rising from a warm bath. Spoiled and pampered, and the Austrian stepped from the car as if he were royalty, and West his mere chauffeur. 

"Well," said the Austrian, once standing and facing West, "so you're staying the night, after all. Splendid! I'll make a cake for us, then." 

"Don't trouble yourself," said West, as he pushed shut the door in the Austrian's 'princely' wake. And it slammed, but West forgot to lock it. How careless, West. Don't you know prisoners lurk about, just looking and checking latches for unlocked vehicles?? How very careless...

***

East found the keys in the floorboard beneath the driver's seat, after ravaging the dashboard, and checking the glovebox. In the latter, however, he had managed to unearth a pack of smokes, and 'What luck!' he had thought. 'It really is Christmas.'

A roadmap and a pair of black gloves -- also retrieved from the glovebox -- along with a lighter, were now scattered onto the passenger seat, as East withdrew a cigarette from the pack, and lit it, and breathed in so deep, it hurt his tired lungs, and his free hand shot to his tender bruised neck, but he breathed in deep, and it was Heaven, wasn't it? If only for a fleeting moment of bliss. Smoke swirling outward from the flaming stick housed between his teeth, and into the air, it uprose, and billowed about. Floating ghosts, and the inmates, and the poor trapped souls within the prison -- the ex-hospital -- East imagined all of them watching, and 'They must be so jealous right now!' he thought.

Donning the black gloves; pulling them onto his long fingers, and tight to his wrist: he snapped them in place; a size too small, but ah, 'Who cares,' he grinned. The cigarette hanging from his lip. A regular Humphrey Bogart, or James Dean. And he laughed a bit, shaking his head. "He'll never know what hit him," East said aloud of the Austrian. "He'll never know I'm coming to see him!" 

And East stuck the key into the ignition, and turned over the engine.

Once shifting the car into reverse, East outstretched his arm, and placed his hand atop the headrest of the passenger seat. Peering over his shoulder, he grinned again -- the cigarette in his mouth; pinned tight between teeth; a near-fang showing on one side; visible thanks to a curl in his lips; a clever smirk -- as he studied the parking lot via the back-dash of the car. Too impatient, or too careless, or too forgetful to use the rear-view mirror, or side mirrors, or any of it. Anything built into place. To hell with the glass! And damn the proper techniques. He eased his bare foot onto the gas pedal, to creep his way from the parking space. Driving the car backwards, he circled about, until the car was facing forward, and 'If only I had a hat!' he thought, and was struck by a sudden burst of panic. 'My hair...they'll notice my silver hair.' 

But surely lots of doctors were aged, and possessed a head full of silver hair. East always did look 'old' for his age, in one respect. Not grayed hair, per se, but that mop of silver never matched his face nor demeanor, and when he was a child, he liked to place birds on his head, and run about the schoolyard, making chirping noises. 'What a strange kid,' so many had said of him. But East never cared. And neither did West; or at least, he never said it; he never complained. He wasn't ashamed of his brother. He didn't want to disown him, at any point, in their twenty-something years together; their relatively short lives. But surely East _was_ a strange kid, compared to West. And even now...he was still quite strange by comparison.

Wishing he had found a hat, in his manic search of the glovebox, to hide that silver mop, and hell, he wished a lot of things...

Most of all, to have the Austrian's apartment complex magically appear as a highlighted attraction on the nearby roadmap. Folded neat, and crinkling pages, and surely, just surely, God would show East the way. Maybe God would bow down, and draw a line for him. A red line, leading from the Grover Downs Reformatory, to the part of town where the Austrian resided.

'But it's gonna be okay, right?' East asked of himself, as he drove through the parking lot. Approaching the gate. The armed guards atop the towers, sure, but...it _was_ Christmas Night, and it had snowed all day, and thanks to the frigid temperatures...maybe, just maybe, the one guard on duty atop the nearest tower, shut his eyes at that exact moment, to sneeze, thus missing the distinct sight of the silver-haired prisoner turned car-thief.

Yet there was still a man, sitting in a tollbooth-like structure, with whom East would have to contend. A small man; an old man. Balding, and dressed in a plainer uniform than most the guards wore, but with a shining badge pinned to his chest. A dog sleeping at his feet.

And East drove up to the tollbooth, and he smiled, and waved, but he kept his voice low, and his chin somewhat dipped.

"Good evening," said the old man in the tollbooth. "Pass?" he asked, with his hand extended through a slim rectangular window.

"Pass," said East, and he scrounged through his lab coat pockets, and dug through the glovebox, and patted his fingers across the dash. "Damn," he said, turning back to the old man. "I must have forgotten it in the infirmary." And East shook his head, and ashed the cigarette. "Such a rough night," he lamented. "One prisoner tried to take his own life today. Can you believe that?! And on Christmas...what a shame," said East. And he frowned with a sincere wince of pain; his eyes watering, as he peered at the man in the tollbooth; the two of them exchanging an empathetic gaze. "I'd hate to think what might have happened, had I not been there to treat him."

"Yes, yes," said the old man. "What a shame...and on Christmas, too. _Tsk_." 

East nodded, along with the man, and repeated, "What a shame," as he turned, and switched the heater of the car to full-blast. "But just think," East blurted, "my wife is making a beautiful dinner tonight! So at least I can go home to that, right?" He smiled, "Better days to come." 

"Aye," said the man, and for a moment, he returned the smile, yet it faded once he remembered his position. "But I still need to see your pass," he said, and he narrowed his eyes at East, to study him. "I don't recognize your face."

"Ah," said East, and he shook for a moment. "So cold tonight," he added, while he scrounged again, through the pockets of the stolen suit, as if still looking for his prison-entry pass. "I must have left it, you know. I was distracted...Ha. But I tell you what," he said, pointing to the man with his black-gloved finger, "I'll come back tomorrow, yes? And I'll go to the infirmary, and I'll show you my pass," East said, as he took the cigarette from his mouth, to snuff it out, twisting it, headfirst, into the ashtray of the car. "I'm just a visitor here...it's a visitor's pass," he laughed. "Your regular doctor is a friend of mine, and he wanted the holiday off, and since I have no children, I volunteered! And..." East prattled on; a decent liar when need-be, "I'll show you the pass, and I'll have my friend explain," so quick and compulsive, and he sort of grinned, while talking, as if pleased with the sincere tone of his lie; as if his words were so convincing; as if his deceitful diatribe was working -- he was so certain it was! And it _must_ be; God was on his side, and it _was_ Christmas Night, and surely everyone had a good and golden heart on such a day -- yet his voice slowed, as he finished his sob story: "Come on, Mister," East pleaded, "I just saved a young man's life, and..." trailing off a moment; shaking his head once again; lighting yet another cigarette, and sighing, "I just want to go home to my wife, and remember, not all people in this world are broken," he inhaled the smoke, and shut his eyes, "Some of us are still whole inside." 

Jackpot. 

The old man sitting in the tollbooth-like structure sort of grimaced; a half-smile, half-frown; nodding his head sort of sideways in pained agreement. "Aye," he said again, and he pushed a button, and waved his hand, and a long bar -- white and red -- blocking the drive, rose from its place, with an orange light flashing off to one side, and there was no beeping; there was no noise; just the long arm of the law moving from its place, stretched across the land and road, and the light shone, reflected by the hood and dash of the 'borrowed' car. 

And as it rose, East rested his gloved hands on the steering wheel again, and he sneered. Raising his upturned, and rather bulbous, but also rather cute, nose into the air, and his grin widened. The light in his red-violet eyes sharpened, yet his words softened. "Merry Christmas," East said, and he smiled, most joyous, as if speaking to a fellow -- yet unimportant; strictly background -- character in a Dickens play. _A Christmas Carol_. And the Austrian would be visited by at least one spirit tonight. Not a ghost in the realistic sense of the word, but a ghost from his recent memory. A ghost he perhaps longed to block out. Forget him forever. Give him up for dead. And the Austrian had West now, so what did he want with a visit from East? Too damn bad, because he was going to get it, now wasn't he?! And East laughed as he imagined all sorts of odd things; as he waved good-bye, with yet another pleasant smile, and his hand shot to his chest, as if touched by the generous holiday spirit of the old man in the tollbooth, and East might as well have added, 'Merry Christmas to all, and to all, a good night!' as he shifted gears again, from park to drive, and he inched forward. Driving, with a bare and freezing foot on the gas pedal. As he eased forward, and the engine didn't sputter, for the 'borrowed' car had damn near a full tank of gas. And 'What luck again!' he thought, as he eased, and he inched, and the car slid onward as if floating on air. So quiet. So sneaky. And East drove through the opened gate of the prison.

Grover Downs Reformatory? Good-bye, good-bye, good-bye. 

***

And the walls grew small in the distance. Peering not over his shoulder this time, nor in the rear-view mirror, but in his mind: the walls grew small, and faded away into the darkness of the background. East sped on, down the autobahn, and into the night. 

The long arm of the law never knowing -- at least, not knowing yet -- a car had been stolen. The infirmary breached. A set of keys lifted. A set of keys used by Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven. And he wasn't dressed in a paper gown and dark blue robe, nor in his Prussian blue jumpsuit, but was dressed in a two-piece suit and lab coat. -- Hell, the guards wouldn't know what to look for!

In a car with an up-to-date license plate, and two working headlights; two working taillights. And there was no reason for anyone to stop him, as he sped along, on that long night drive. With a tank damn near full of gas. The engine not sputtering, but purring, or some sound akin to it -- soft and quiet and careful -- and East with his seat belt buckled. The heater blowing full-blast. And he stretched out a bit in the driver's seat. He smoked cigarette after cigarette, keeping the lighter safe atop his lap. 

And the long arm of the tollbooth -- the long arm which marked the gate to the prison: the exit and the entrance -- moved its way back into place, as the tollbooth man scratched his head.

"Or maybe I have seen that doctor before," he spoke aloud to the police dog at his feet. "But I'll be damned if I can remember where." 

***

The Austrian held the hand of West, refusing to let go of it, even as the two had ventured from the side of the car. Even as they approached the building, and West shook at the Austrian's arm, wiggling his fingers, trying to free them, but the Austrian still wouldn't let go! It wasn't West's fault...nothing ever was. Always innocent. But if only the cute Italian boyfriend could see all this! Like some scene from a love story. Like some scene from a movie. Like some black-and-white glossy postcard. Two men: a hand-in-hand couple, or so they appeared; moving from a parallel-parked car, towards a concrete stoop. Making their way, somewhat huddled together, so befitting of the cold air, and the 'togetherness' of the holiday, to reach the front door; the antiquated entrance of a towering apartment building, akin to the brownstones in New York.

 _A historic district._ And no, East didn't know what to look for, while barreling down the autobahn in the stolen car. But it was unlocked, wasn't it?! So it wasn't his fault. -- Nothing was ever his fault, either. 

And East peered out the front dash of the car, and smoked, chain-style, and ashed on his own knees. Getting careless, and growing restless. He cringed, and shifted his weight, and surely, just surely, a neon sign would magically appear to him. Pointing out the Austrian's apartment building. Or home. -- Hell, maybe it was a house. A mansion! -- And no, East didn't know...

The Italian boyfriend didn't know, either. Sad, and lying abed, and in his head, he imagined his cute German boyfriend was doing well, visiting his brother in prison. Such a loving man. And the Italian dreamt of a future with him, where the two men could share the stone home and land bought by East and West, and the Italian could teach children, if he could never have any of his own. And maybe they could adopt? One day. Someday. Such pleasant daydreams. -- And he'd cook supper for the two of them nightly, and make love to him...someday. 

But on the steps of the snow-covered stoop, huddled for warmth, and holding hands, West and the Austrian paused.

"Watch it, now," West said. "I'd hate for you to slip." 

So careful. So cautious. Always worried about everyone's health and well-being. Maybe West should have become a doctor himself! Much like East in his lab coat: lost in his childish daydreams. College-educated, indeed. 

At least one of the brothers was, for West had used part of his drug money to fund a college education, to become what? A man in an office. A man at a desk. A regular pencil-pusher. And journalism wasn't all it was cracked up to be. A war correspondent: now there would have been a fascinating career! But West wasn't his father, and he couldn't follow in his dad's footsteps. Besides, the Germans weren't fighting wars anymore -- at least not 'hot' ones these days -- and thank God for that, anyway.

The Austrian reached out, with his free, gloved hand, and opened the door to his apartment building. "Shall we?" he asked. "Go on up, that is," and he sort of laughed, his faint thin laugh, because he wasn't sure what else he was supposed to say or do; what sound he should make, and this seemed odd to him: to be nervous in the company of a good-looking man. To have such a handsome blond in his grasp. Such an understated appearance; not all that well-dressed, but now the Austrian knew the German had _some_ abundance of money. He wasn't broke: so at least there was that. And he wondered, just where did West get that fat wad of cash? The one he had slid to the prison guard in the visitation room. To buy the Austrian. To prostitute him. Out to East, and into his arms. Into the arms of the brother, about whom the Austrian wondered and worried: 'Just what on earth is East doing right now? -- How is he?? -- I hope he's all right.' But the Austrian shook his head, combating the thoughts. Best to let sleeping dogs lie, and dying dogs are better off dead. Beneath a house -- a porch -- where no one can see them. Where you can't witness their demise. And East would be all right, the Austrian thought. Best left to his own devices and plans, and he'll get out eventually. Someday. 'And when he does,' thought the Austrian, 'I won't be there to greet him. I won't be there to hold his hand. I won't be glad. I won't smile. And I won't suffer, if West runs away, or escapes my tight hand, or my future embrace. I'll cling tight to this man, and East can rot away, and I don't think he'd want me, anyway, if he knew me. If he really knew me. I'm not such a good man.'

And none of the three men were so good, after all. Bad luck and bad circumstances befall all of those in existence, except for maybe a cute Italian without a bad word or black mark against him; without a single sin. Such a good and admirable soul. But he was in his own pit of Hell, wondering -- worrying -- just why on earth did his German boyfriend not call him that Christmas Night? 

A feast to be had, and no one to feed it to. No feast to prepare, and no warm home in which to dine. No dinner table to dress, and sit at, upon chairs to rest. Candles lit, and a turkey baked, and lights strung about a tree. Fresh and green, and the scent of it fills your nose with those childhood memories you can never buy nor replace. The fresh green scent of a fresh-cut tree, sliced at its thick and rugged trunk, no matter how slender the tip. And like a broken nail, it splits evenly and clean. And you dunk it into an overgrown vase of water. A red sprawled out and odd piece of metal: a contraption much akin, in its shape, to a crouched down spider waiting to lay its eggs. Its odd legs, like curled down spider legs, and in its basin, you fill lukewarm water, and hope for the best. For the dead tree which appears to be living. For the dead tree which is still sweet-smelling and clean-scented. The fresh green, and the fleshy limbs, and they scratch you, but you dare not curse them. You string lights about their limbs, and you praise them for their beauty. The festive spirit of the holiday season. Your lost childhood, and all your dead dreams, like Christmas trees, fresh cut, and not living, and soon to be rotting; you place them in spider-like basins of water, and you hope for the best. You hope the tree doesn't fall, and you hope the lights you strung across its limping limbs don't burst into flames. Weighted down with ornaments. Heirlooms leftover from your parents. Dug from the depths of dusty attics. And it all seems so foreign to you, in your adulthood. Christmastime, and all the madness it can bring. All the joy? Only if you're a child -- still in mind, if not in physicality -- scooting about the floor, in your cardboard car. Lost in your imagination. Lost in your joyful excursions; lost in the wide world of daydreams, fiddling about with your playthings. Your toys. Your ill-gotten gifts from a brother who loves you, sure, but you took the fall for him, and what did you get to show for it? A date for the two free men, and the one man on the run. In a stolen car. Barreling down the autobahn, beneath a moon high in the sky now, and snow no longer swirling down, but sitting in piles and dead heaps, all along the roadside. 

Browned, and soiled, and ruined. Nothing pure left about it. Hard, and thawed, and re-frozen; crunchy mounds of wasted snow. No fun to play in. No joy to be had. No soft steps, and that sound it makes when your feet meet the snow, and it's like Heaven to hear it. That squashing sound. That _'slumph'_. That slosh. That most delightful sound in all of life and existence. Much akin, surely, to an angel when it hums.

 _'Slumph'_ , and slosh, and soft crunching of clean snow beneath footfalls...

And up the stoop, and over the threshold; through the stairwells of the Austrian's apartment building, West and the Pretty Boy climbed. 

***

Once entering the Austrian's sitting room, West took a seat on the green-striped sofa, as the Austrian shed his pure white coat. 

"Give me a moment," the Austrian said, "and I'll make some tea for us, at least." 

West nodded, and turned his head to see Mr. Whisker Schnitzels curled-up and purring on the windowsill. As if awaiting company. More company. As if happy to pass the time napping, and West smiled, and thought of his Italian boyfriend. 'He'd love to play with that kitty cat,' thought West, and he peered at the cat, with a soft hint of love in his eyes. Wanting to pet it, and play with it, and maybe this wasn't so bad. To be back in the Austrian's apartment. To be served a cup of tea, in the warmth of such a nice place. Such a nice home. If you can call it that. An overpriced apartment, and an over-decorated sitting room, with silk sofas, and fluffy throw-pillows, and curtains the color of champagne. 

But no Christmas tree? thought West. And why would that be?? 

Maybe the Austrian was Jewish, he wondered. And maybe he'd ask, but then again, maybe he shouldn't. 

***

East drove down the dark road, fretting, 'Sure, I have a full tank of gas, but they'll start to look for this car eventually. Once they notice it's missing. And they'll ask the owner for the license plate number. They'll track me down, and they'll drag me back to the reformatory.' 

East decided to ditch the car. 'But where? How far down the autobahn, and then into the woods??' To park in amongst trees, on snow-covered ground. And he peered ahead, waiting for an amendment to his escape plan to dawn on him. 

Ditch the car. Hell, set it on fire! And he laughed to himself, and thumbed at the lighter still resting on his lap. And he swished his thumb across the rough, rolled edge of the lighter's head, then _click_ , and _swoosh_ , the lighter bore a flame. Over and over again, East struck it, and a blue then red haze shot out, and a flame sent heat through the fabric of his stolen pants. Burning his knee, but it didn't smoke, and he didn't care. He didn't mind holes in the knee of his suit pants. He didn't mind the heat or the pain. 'Let's get this over with,' he thought, as he veered across the road, and into the trees. Into a small stretch of land. An open space. And he turned off the car's headlights. He gathered the map from the passenger seat, and the pack of cigarettes from the dashboard, and he stashed them, along with the lighter, into his lab coat pockets. 

Throwing open the door of the car, East edged his way from the driver's seat, stepping onto cold ground. To stand barefoot in the snow again, and he shuddered, as he shut the door, quiet, but kept the keys, and now two sets of keys weighted down the lining of his pants.

East swept the ash from his knees, where holes were burnt: brown and crisp around the edges. Small holes, like moth-bites. And he bent over, with his hands on his legs, and looked out into the woods, his mouth agape, and he breathed in, and wondered, just how far was the river, and how far was the apartment building? Still assuming it was an apartment building. Surely West had mentioned something East could use to locate the Austrian's residence; surely he had made a passing mention of the musician living in a fancy place on his own.

But as East stood peering at the trees and struggling to recall hints and details from the recent letters of West, he glanced behind himself, over his shoulder, half-expecting some fellow prisoner to come bum-rushing their way through a naked crowd of fellow, cowering inmates, and 'Just how far...' and slime on his cheek, and this day was one long nightmare, but still it was Christmas, and East couldn't help but grin. Sliding yet another cigarette between his lips, he took another deep breath, and stretched, and stood, and told himself: _'Just pretend you're already dead. You can't feel a thing. You're still lying on a hospital bed. You're getting an autopsy! -- And the dead can't feel fear, or their half-frozen feet. To hell with hypothermia! -- Your feet won't fall off. They won't freeze, and then break. -- And so what if your toes are blue? Let them be blue. Keep marching, Soldier. This trek is almost over. You'll spot the apartment soon. You'll find the Austrian. And when you do, Prisoner With No Number, because now you're a free man, and no wall had to crumble; no painting had to fall. -- You kept the dream alive, didn't you?'_

And on and on it went; with a cigarette between his lips, East talked to himself, in a most uplifting way, and with such hard-boiled vehemence, he might as well have been a motivational speaker in the ward of a hospital or orphanage, and maybe, with his ass out of prison, he could join up with the Austrian, and do charitable work on the weekends. In disguise, of course. Always in disguise, for the rest of his life. 

Ah, but the river was waiting. -- East almost forgot.

His death wish. To make love to the Austrian; to lose his innocence, then move onto the river, to drown himself. To take away any and all chance of ever returning to the Grover Downs Reformatory. It was all in the past, all in the past, and there was no way they would ever find him now. Now since he was moving on foot. Now since he was trudging along the autobahn, but off to one side of the road, and whenever a passing car came driving by, East would duck down behind a snowdrift. Hiding, like the small and frightened animal he was, or was made to feel he was. The animal they made him out to be. Treated him as. A piece of meat. And just what of his wanting to make a meal of the Austrian?

Well, why not make the best of a bad situation. Of a dying wish. And when he got there, East thought, to the Austrian's apartment, he'd have the Man in the Painting wash his feet for him. He'd have the Austrian run a warm bath, and bathe him. Wash, and then kiss his forehead. Scrub his feet. Warm them with white plushy towels: wrap them around his ankles, and tie the bundles with strings. Like two white presents on Christmas morning, beneath a tree. Overgrown and swollen socks. Two mittens on his feet: white towels, tied up with ribbons. And the Austrian could wash the feet of East, and put a rag to his forehead, along with a kiss, and let him soak in a warm tub -- a lovers bath, to raise his temperature a few degrees -- before crawling into bed; before falling asleep.

And it was all a nice daydream. Something to keep East company, as he trudged through the darkness, with the moon shining down, but only so much, to illuminate the tree-lined autobahn, but ah, the snow reflected a bit of the light, like a soft bulb, yellow-tinged above a silver-framed mirror, and East tromped through the snow, nearly crawling at times, all along the autobahn, until he reached an outskirts of a town. A row of buildings. Old bricks, and sidewalks, and streetlamps. And if you were to view it, not from the edge of a tree-line, nor from behind a browning snowbank, but from the future: you might almost say, it looked a bit like a historic district. 


	9. Chapter 9

From the doorway of the kitchen, the Austrian emerged carrying a silver tray. The edge of it brushed against his purple shirt; the one with an unnoticed hole torn in its front, thanks to East, and there were so many ruffles, and swishing bits of fabric, no, the Austrian never noticed. A hole near his heart, and above it, his silver cross necklace glinted, reflecting the light, not from overhead, but from the far corner of the room, where a blue lamp with a pristine white shade, shone soft, like a beacon off at sea, and let it be a lamp in the window for a wandering boy.

Surely the cat knew someone was coming...

Mr. Whisker Schnitzels lifted his head, and meowed as the Austrian approached. The silver tray in hand, and upon it sat a shining silver teapot, and two small china cups outlined in silver. But where were the silver spoons to match? The spoons were golden, and wouldn't you know it...too good for silver spoons in his older age.

And near the cups and spoons stood a tall silver flask filled with Scotch whiskey, to spike the Earl Grey. Or maybe to replace it; once the tea had been drank, the two men could pour whiskey into their cups, and that makes it all the more respectable. To get drunk out of fine china.

"Your tea," said the Austrian, as he lingered near West. 

The latter sitting on the sofa. His legs crossed to form a wide lap, and he leaned forward, and nodded, as if to say 'thank you'.

Aiming for the tray in the Austrian's grasp, West took a teacup from it, so careful, lest he spill it. And he pulled the cup close to his chest, and let the steam rise up to greet his blue eyes. And careful, he blew down to cool it, lest he burn his precious tongue.

"You do like tea, don't you?" the Austrian asked. 

West nodded again. "I do," he said. "I mean...it's fine," and he smiled rather slight. 

"Too bad East is missing all this," said the Austrian, but he wasn't sure if he meant it. Speaking words in a flimsy tone just to speak them. Just to sound 'nice', and his voice was tinny, and he took his teacup from the tray, with one hand, and with the other, he set the tray aside. To rest it upon a nearby table, and the Austrian turned, and lowered himself to the sofa to sit next to West. A few inches away. A few inches apart, the two men sat and drank from their teacups. No stirring them first -- they didn't even touch the golden spoons! -- and somewhere, surely, East was approaching the apartment building. Perhaps he was standing at a streetlamp, with his hand above his eyes -- flattened palm perched at his brow -- peering up into windows. And maybe he'd see the soft light of the blue lamp overhead. And the champagne curtains as they rustled, thanks to the small gray cat as he re-lowered his head, nuzzling at the fabric. And the cat purred, grateful to have his master home, as the two men drank, but not stirred, their two cups of tea. "And it's funny," the Austrian said. "I can't seem to remember a thing that happened today," he lied through his teeth. His pearly white teeth. No tea-stains. No whiskey-stains. No threads. Squeaky clean, and sweet-smelling, and it's amazing how rich people, no matter how filthy their lifestyles at times -- despite their filthy habits -- can always remain so clean.

And West drank a long sip from his cup. He breathed in deep: the steam, and the smell of the tea. It remained comforting, to be in such a place, and in the company of such a refined man. Such a grownup, compared to West's Italian boyfriend. 

"Maybe it's better that way," West said, as he turned to study the Austrian. "You'd rather not remember, I guess?"

The Austrian smiled, though his lips were somewhat hidden behind the silver rim. "I suppose so," he said. And he took one last long sip, before placing his near-emptied cup onto the edge of a side table. The one akin to the far corner table -- the one beside West -- bearing the blue lamp; the beacon for those lost and wandering.

"I never want to see your brother's face again," the Austrian said.

***

East stumbled along, from the outskirts of what looked to be an old quiet town. Into a district: historic or not.

And headfirst, he plunged into a snowbank, still fresh, not browned, nor scooted from where it fell, and thanks to tripping over his own two feet, he flattened the snowbank, and smooshed into it like a man dropped atop a pile of sugar. Making accidental snow angels in it, by trying to lift himself; thrashing about. Arms outstretched, and he rose, and tumbled, and got a mouthful of snow. The cold, and the taste in his mouth...East bit down, and it tasted rather sweet...almost like sugar, indeed. And East smiled to himself, as he finally pushed himself to standing, but swayed as he shivered. His suit all damp. The lab coat drab with long wet lines, like thin scratches running in vertical stripes, akin to the familiar bars on a prison window. The melted snow dripping from the coat onto the pavement. The sidewalk. The street. 

East looked up at the line of tall buildings. The row of what he believed to be apartment complexes. And he hoped at least one of them housed the Austrian. The Violin Boy. The man of his dreams. 

And East shut his eyes, and held his arms close to himself, as if struggling to give his own body a hug.

'I need this, God...I really need this,' he thought, and shivered again, and drew a deep breath, to fill his lungs with the clean yet somewhat hollow feeling of the night air, and he longed to replace it with something more concrete.

Sliding his gloved hand into a pocket of his lab coat, East retrieved the crushed pack, and from it, withdrew the last cigarette. Sticking it between his teeth, he lit it with the lighter, and 'Got to make this one count,' he thought. 'All out of smokes, and almost out of time.'

Or so he feared.

And East sighed to himself, and trekked on, tromping through the snow. Onward through the otherwise empty street. Cars parked parallel to the buildings. Parked cars, and maybe he could steal one of them. Maybe he could check all the latches, to find another car unlocked. Another fool owner, who leaves his door unlocked, and his keys in the floorboard and his lighter on the dash. Another fool, who leaves behind roadmaps -- not to say East had used his map; he knew this town well enough; a year in prison doesn't erase your memory of the country in which you grew up -- or a pack of cigarettes to fill the night sky with smoke, to intermingle with your silent hopes of finding an Austrian; the hopes of meeting his eyes with your eyes, and his lips with your lips, and his mouth with your tongue, and 'Just how far down your throat...' and his lungs filled with smoke, and less hollow air. And East could check all the cars, and find an unlocked door, and if not, at least find a side-mirror in which to peer, to check his face and his hair. To approach the Austrian, should he find him, East wanted to look perfect! Or at least 'nice'. And East laughed, thinking he could pretend to give flowers to him. Red roses. An armload of invisible red roses! A whole bouquet!! Of pretend. Playing games, and if the Austrian didn't want him, or his visit, or his love-making, then that was just too damn bad, now wasn't it?

Of course, if the Austrian didn't want that last note on the agenda, East wouldn't push the subject. He'd be happy to just hold hands.

Or maybe East would settle for a tea party for three.

Then again, _Two's company..._

***

'Never see his face again.'

What a tragic and most unusual thing to say, thought West, of the Austrian's previous comment.

"But my brother isn't a bad man," West said. 

\-- 'Better than you,' West wanted to add, but he didn't. Out of fear. Out of...something. 

And the Austrian turned, and reached out his hand to touch the German's knee. "But let's not talk about East," the Austrian said. "I'm more interested in why you left me today. Why you thought it was okay to leave me alone with a prisoner! Just what were you thinking...pawning me off," he almost asked, but mostly whimpered; with his nose upturned; emphasizing the words 'prisoner' and 'pawning' as if they were obscene; protruding his lower lip, yet feigning a simpering gaze.

'THIS,' thought West, still studying the Austrian. 'This pathetic kitten face! What's with this routine...?!' and his mind wandered off into some angry direction he'd rather not venture. It was a dark place, and an ugly place, and the Austrian managed to stir within West, some feeling of hatred to which West was unaccustomed. Some feeling akin to violent behavior he had never quite tasted. Despite his past. Despite his history. _An accident_ , for sometimes murder isn't cold-blooded. And sometimes blood on your hands doesn't show, when you wash them twelve times a day, several times in a row, and don rubber gloves, and scrub your kitchen until the tile doesn't shine, but grows dull, and your skin goes raw. And for a moment, West wanted to wrap his rough hands about the Austrian's neck, and choke all the life out of him. Or at least the questions and the sound. Because no, West didn't want to hurt him; he just wanted to put a stop to this...this...name-badgering! East's good name. It wasn't fair. To have the Austrian sit so close to him, and hear his badmouthing of the one brother who didn't deserve to be locked away.

But never mind; maybe it was okay. Maybe the Austrian wasn't implying 'prisoner' as obscene; maybe the Austrian wasn't so hellbent on dragging East and his good name and his innocence -- no matter how secret -- through the mud, what with his veiled insults; not the words he said, but the way he said them. 'Just who is he trying to convince?' thought West. And maybe the Austrian _was_ quite fond of West, sure, but there was something else...almost as if there was _someone_ else, already in the room with them; a ghost the Austrian couldn't quite shake. And West, for the life of him, failed to pinpoint _what_ exactly made him think it, but...despite his fondness of West, the Austrian seemed rather partial to East, and perhaps, thought West, the Austrian simply didn't want to admit it. 'Perhaps this Little Master -- this snob! -- is just ashamed!!'

'Never see his face again.'

Preoccupied with the unsettling phrase, thus ignoring the Austrian's attempt to change the subject; back to his same old questions; the ones West felt he had adequately answered, on the drive 'home' to the Austrian's apartment. As if helping his brother feel better at Christmas wasn't a good enough reason to shell out some cash, and hope for the best.

'Never see his face again,' lest the Austrian get tempted, the German deemed, and...

"I think," West began, as he set his own cup to a side table; to let the cup rest empty beneath the blue lamp, and he grinned -- a full grin -- and sure, it hurt his cheeks, but it felt good, damn it, to let the truth seep out for once.

"I think maybe you DO like my brother," he said. "If only a little bit." And West stood, and he laughed, and he straightened his pants. "And I think you DO remember what happened today," and his voice grew louder, and a bit angrier, although most of his anger he managed to repress, "and I think you're only throwing yourself at me, because you don't want to admit you're in love with a prisoner."

The Austrian shot to standing; leaping to his feet, from his place on the sofa, and his face was red, and his eyes wide as if slapped. His mouth agape, and he gasped, and, "Ah!" he shouted. "In love with him?!" he laughed. "You're insane!!" 

And West raised his chin, ready to battle with this snob in his torn purple shirt; in this cozy apartment's sitting room, no matter how soft-lit; no matter how nice the furnishings, how soothing the tea, nor how cute the cat, somehow, this scene was no longer so comforting to West. 

He glared down at the Austrian, who stood a few inches shorter than himself. A rather slight man, the Austrian. Slim, and slender, and delicate, sure; something almost feminine about him. Despite his harsh way of speaking, and treating others. Unfeeling. Something charming, though, definitely...in its own muddled way. And his eyes were pretty: at least there was that. His violet eyes, and that arch of hair: the way it framed his kittenish face. Such dainty hands and features. Such piercing eyes, but such furrowed brows. Such an angry countenance. And that upturned nose, that fickle smile. That crook in his brow, and that sidelong glare, and muffled smirk. What a strange way to look, and to act, and to dress, and to be, thought West. 'There's nothing pure about him! There's nothing much admirable, either.' -- No innocence. Unlike like the Italian boyfriend, who was waiting at home, and crying into his sheets. 

"I ought to be going," said West, and he turned in a sharp and stiff-backed way, as if expecting to fight off some equally-strong body who may want to stop him; impede his beeline for the exit. But no one tried to stop him, at least not by use of physical force.

"Wait!" the Austrian said, as he ran across the room to join the side of the German who was rushing towards the door. "Wait," he repeated, and begged, "Don't go," and breathed deep, "Please," and he looked to the floor, once grabbing West by the shoulder. Now trying to use physical means to hold West into place. "Wait," he whispered, and again poked out his bottom lip, but this time, maybe it poked out by a will of its own, and not by forcing or feigning some emotion he was hoping to convey; not to get his way, yet then again, damn it, he didn't want to be alone. Not on Christmas Day. -- But it was Christmas Night, now, wasn't it? The snowfall long faded, and the frigid evening well underway. 

The Austrian stood between West and the door to the apartment. Speaking with one hand on West's shoulder, "Please," he said again, clutching tight to the cross about his neck, "I don't want you to go," and tears welled in his eyes; those pretty eyes, and no matter how, at times, they appeared somewhat soulless to West, now they were a mess of bottled-up emotions finally released, for there was no use pretending; no energy to do so, once faced with being left -- abandoned -- and no, the Austrian didn't want to be alone; didn't want to sleep alone.

He shook as he spoke, and his lips quivered. His eyes darted from his own shoes, to West's shoes, and finally his gaze traced its way up West's tall body, to settle on the German's face. How it looked worried for the other man; how West sort of cringed, as if pained by the Austrian getting so upset. Moved by the Austrian's sudden ability to display actual sincere emotions.

"Wait," the Austrian said for what felt like the millionth time, and he began to sob as he cowered his way into West's arms. All broken, and wanting West to hold him. He grabbed for the other man, and buried his head at his chest, wrapping his arms around the German's waist. 

The phone hadn't rang all day. No one had come to call, before West showed up. And with the exception of East in the prison; with the exception of the Austrian's venture into a broom-closet, to be kissed by a prisoner, and to hold and be held, by a man in a Prussian blue jumpsuit, this Christmas was a most unremarkable day. Uneventful, except for all that...and yes, the Austrian wanted to forget...

But _how_ could he forget?!

And so, he clung tight to West, to wash it away, with all the tears he had bottled-up on the drive home from the prison; in the near-dying car; in the passenger seat, where East now sat. 

***

"I can't believe I found my brother's car!!" East squealed in delight, and shut his eyes, and kicked his bare feet about the floorboard. "I found it, I found it," he said to himself, sort of in singsong, and he hummed along, and leaned back, and Oh God, he could smell the Violin Boy. He could smell him, and despite only two meetings, and only once holding him close, and having the smell washed away from him by greedy prison guards, soon after their embrace -- their encounter; and ah! What an eventful day, thought East, except for the ugly parts of it, which he hoped to soon forget, but sometimes lives aren't long enough to allow you the comfort of forgetting such forceful and hateful things -- he'd know that scent anywhere. The Little Master. The Austrian. The Violin Boy. The Pretty Boy. The Man in the Painting. That Face.

So many names for such a simple idea of such a complex human being. Of a man East didn't know too well, sure, but he would change all that, and of that, he _was_ sure! "Tonight," East said, looking up at the apartment building alongside the parked car. "I'm going to find you tonight. You're here!" East surmised. "I know it, I know it. I'm gonna climb that stoop, and I'm gonna check every room. Before they catch me," he planned, looking into the rear-view mirror to check his teeth for thread, and he grinned at his own reflection, and wiped away a silver wisp of hair from his pale bluish forehead, still wet with snow, "I'm going to make you glad you know me at all."

To arrive in that seat, East had tumbled through the snow, and up the street, and was just about to start checking the latches for unlocked doors, when he spotted it: his brother's car. And the slight dent in the trunk. The back taillight scratched, and the paint-job scuffed near the rear, off to one side. And how those scratches and scuff-marks got there, was really no matter now, or was it?

No, not now; not on Christmas Night.

With his brother's car in his sight, East had ran, with his mouth open wide. Smiling so big, it hurt his ears, and made clicking sounds in his head, like when you're too far up in the mountains, and you can't quite hear anything except for that sound. And he had swallowed hard to try and make it stop. And he had ran to the car, grinning so wide, it pained his ears, and he had grabbed the latch of the passenger side door, and wouldn't you know it? West was a fool. Or maybe the Austrian was, but no. Not him. Never him. Not the Man in the Painting. Surely it was West's fault! Leaving the car door unlocked. But no. West was no fool, either. It was surely that spoiled Violin Boy! Not having a car of his own. Not knowing to lock the doors. Always having some chauffeur drive him about. Some hired car, and hired man. And he'd nod his head, and wave his hand, and have every whim catered to. And surely it was him -- the Pretty Boy -- who didn't lock the passenger side door. Where East had slid his hand beneath the latch, and lifted it. Whamo. It clicked, and the door swung open. East had squealed, while wilting inside; dropping into the passenger seat, with a grin so big; a smile so wide. And he had peered in the mirror at the same exact time, a few stories higher, in the old, brick, brownstone-esque apartment complex, the Austrian was clinging tight to West. Crying in his arms. Hugging at his chest, and burying his face to wash away the humiliation of the day. To kill the accusations -- or at least hide them for a while, like a body stashed in a trunk on a long drive to the riverside -- of the Austrian loving a prisoner; of wanting one brother, but taking the only brother his hands could find.

***

The Austrian pulled away, if only an inch, and lifted his chin to peer up at West: those pretty blue eyes, and that now caring face.

But it wasn't the same. 

The Austrian cocked his head, and his frown faded, only to be replaced by mouth agape; a breathless grimace, and, "You're not at all interested in this," the Austrian said. "You don't think I love your brother...you just want an excuse to leave, but..." he trailed off, and placed his palms at West's heart, and shoved as hard as he could, sending the German at least one step back. 

West stumbled, and glared wide-eyed. Shocked more so by the physical strength the Austrian possessed, than by the words the Austrian spoke. The truth at last. And his sudden capability of knowing...of reading the atmosphere, and sensing the mood.

"But surely you don't really think it...me in love with East," the Austrian continued in muddled repetition, as he balled-up his fists, and breathed heavy; speaking in a deeper tone than usual, as if hoping to come across more convincing. "I _don't_ love him," he said, almost to himself, "but...I could try to, if you'd just tell me I have no chance with you, instead."

West stared at the Austrian for as long as he could stand to. His eyes finally darted away, and he studied the floor, and it hurt, really, to try and impart the words he knew he could no longer keep to himself. The truth. And how it hurt to say, and to hear, and you can't keep the truth locked away, especially for years; one year was far too many, and God knows the truth can't stay locked like a bird in a cage. For eventually, it will want to fly, and spread its wings in the sunshine, where the light isn't broken into long slivers, thanks to bars; sharing the light with the shadows they cast; and the bars of a cage have one definite and eternal flaw: they allow a glimpse of the world, to give hope to the bird; they allow the air to filter, and through the air, the truth can be carried, like smoke on a breeze, to be breathed by those too close to the cage. And it was a funny thing, really, to think of East as a bird, locked away in that place. Maybe it was safer for him there. Maybe it was safer than being out here! But West knew that wasn't true. His brother locked in a cage, with a snake in the bedding. Only inches below the bird's perch. That torn fingernail of a bed, and that set of rough sheets, and those black-and-white photographs pinned to the wall, along with the painting of the Man with That Face, West knew: it wasn't all the comforts of home, and it was nothing close to the cozy life the other three men were used to.

Thus West resigned himself to a solution; a sudden urge to fix everything, based on one belief:

How the only way West could ever bring any comfort to East was by telling the Austrian the whole truth -- the full story, and how the Austrian was in love with the brother who shouldn't be a prisoner at all! Cozying up to the guilty, by mistake -- 'And surely this snob can take it,' thought West, for now he knew this delicate Austrian was a hell of a lot stronger and sharper than West had ever given him credit for.

***

But East knew. East gave him credit. East hoped for the best in all things; sensed the greatness in his fellow man. And he knew the Austrian would be waiting for him...to hold his equally-gloved hand. To hold him in his arms again. 

And East rose from the passenger seat with a newfound sense of optimism. How it never faded, but at times, went to sleep. Hibernated. And he wasn't so concerned now with getting caught, nor was he even preoccupied with venturing to the river at the end of this long night. No. He was only interested in finding the exact apartment where his sweetheart resided. 

And even the fact West's car was still parked there was of no great matter. 'I'm sure West is just with him to keep him company on Christmas! That's all it is,' East laughed to himself. 

And he climbed from the car, and shut the door -- as quiet as he could -- behind him. Not locking it. Just in case. And he ran from the parked car and the curbside, to the stoop in front of the building where he assumed the Austrian lived. And he climbed the steps, and he grabbed the door knob, and let himself in. 

Once gracing the lobby of the apartment complex, East looked about for a doorman. Sure enough, there was a desk, and upon it, a bell to ring, and for a moment, East let his palm hover above the bell, thinking, 'Well, maybe I could get a doorman, and just ask if there's a musician living in this building, and what floor, please? What room number...' but East didn't ring, and East didn't ask. 

He ventured on through the lobby, and at the end of a hall, he found a stairwell, and he climbed, and he climbed, and he checked every floor, by way of walking -- pacing the walls -- and he listened, with all his might and strength and heart -- to try and hear a violin song. Maybe the Austrian would be playing a quiet Christmas carol tonight. A hymnal, perhaps. Something melodic, and graceful, and...

East kept listening, leaning his ear near shut doors, trying to detect a hint of familiar-voiced inhabitants, or some semblance of a violin bow singing across the strings on which East wanted to floss his teeth. And he could do such silly things now, he thought, once he moved in with the Austrian. 'Maybe I could stay a while...stay forever!' he dreamed, 'But we'll have to make West leave.' And it would be a hard thing, sure, to kick his own brother out onto the cold and snow-covered streets, 'But hell,' thought East, 'he's done much worse to me.'

And never in his life -- or at least, never in the past year -- had East and his situation conjured such a negative remark in reference to his little brother. And it was strange to him now, to hear his own words in his mind; such angry words, and it wasn't true; he didn't mean it. He was sorry, West, and he was sorry, God, and he was only kidding, ha ha. 

'Please, just let me find him,' East prayed. 'Both of them,' he amended. 'Really...I don't mind.'

***

West, with his hands on his knees, peered up and over to the Austrian blocking the exit. 

"Say it," said the Austrian. "I want to hear you say it. Tell me I don't have a chance."

And West couldn't daydream his way out of this one; not like East. His mind was filled with logic, and hard truths -- or maybe just bad memories -- and he couldn't speak them, unless his tongue was loosened. 

"Let's have a drink first," West said. "Please. Pour that flask you've got over there, and then," he sighed, "I'll tell you everything." 


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry for yet another delay. I tell ya...I never planned to come back to this fic after nearly two years of absence only to leave it again after a single update. I had honestly thought I could get this story back in business at the end of November, and when that didn't happen, I thought, 'Fine, First of December. The anniversary!' but that didn't pan out either. So December Twelfth, I came crawling back, and I was still so hopeful, so optimistic, I thought I could really get at least three or four more chapters published before the end of December, but no...I got horribly sick while editing Chapter Ten. Was coughing up blood on Christmas Eve. A strange way to spend the holidays...sick in bed, and without any semblance of a holiday. No celebrations. Just bedridden and miserable until the New Year came along and reminded me: stories don't write nor edit themselves. 
> 
> Ah ha, so pneumonia or not, I'm here. Finally on the mend; somewhat better, and it's January now, and I'm starting to think this fic is cursed. Back in 2014, a few days after posting Chapter One, I had a seizure. Fast forward to Chapter Eight in January 2015, and I had another seizure. This is why I left, and now I'm associating this damn story not only with my mind feeling fried and damn near erased, but with coughing up blood on the same damn holiday in which East escaped. Walking barefoot through the snow...it's all starting to feel surreal to me for reasons I can't quite pin down. But no matter. I'm ready to get this show on the road and KEEP it on the road! Ready to get this over with, but I mean that in the best possible way. I want to sling out chapters at lightning speed, but...I'm such a slow editor; terrified of mistakes. I'll do my best, though, to just get on with it, so East can get on with it, too. Ha. Poor Prussia. Poor Me. Poor Everyone and Everything. ~ As always, thank you for being here. I hope you enjoy the rest of this story. ~ I'm going back into the shadows, as in, I won't speak again in the notes unless something else bad happens in my life to cause another long delay, but here's hoping it won't.
> 
> Now about that inmate...

East leaned his ear near every shut door on the second, third, and fourth floor of the aristocratic brownstone-esque apartment complex. He didn't give up hope; he didn't get disgruntled when he heard nothing but silence from the many other sides. He didn't hear violin music either, and kept listening...kept walking past doorways, pacing the halls. The long and lonely trek. Walking past unseen inhabitants; doors blocking their cozy homes. And he read the numbers off each door, and made up fake names for the residents just to pass the time. 

"'Mr. I Don't Take A Bath' in room D11," he said. "'Ms. I Obviously Own A Cat' in room D39," he laughed. And if East was great at one thing, it was finding joyous ways to pass the time! 

His short and lonely life, and a long year wasted, sure, but he was going to find the Austrian, and make love to him tonight, so there was that most of all to keep him afloat. To make him smile on his trek. And his heart beat fast, because for a moment -- a soft and quiet moment -- and if only for a moment, East could have sworn he saw a trail of breadcrumbs on the carpeted floor. Stepping closer, he saw them clearer; saw them for what they really were: shoe-prints; brown stains, very much the size and shape of the thick-soled dress shoes his brother often wore. Easily a size above average. Each matted stain substantial in length. Size twelve and a half, maybe?

"I'd know those prints anywhere," East said to himself, as he crouched to the carpet, and sniffed at a print. Though surely not...but oh yes, he did! Getting desperate, and feeling or fearing he was running out of time, and he was a regular Sherlock Holmes now. All he needed was a proper Watson. _Elementary, my dear._ And he rubbed his hand across the sniffed-at print, to ruin it; as if erasing it. "I'm crazy," he sighed. And East shut his eyes, and chose instead to daydream; hearing violin notes singing in his head, and in his mind, he could have sworn he saw the face, the painting, and maybe, just maybe, in his cell room now, the painting swirled down, because the wall had crumbled, while the guards were poking around, trying to find him. As if touching one concrete block of his cell without East in it would make the whole place tumble down! But no, how silly, he realized. For why would they search his room? If someone had reentered the infirmary, to check upon him and the old man with the flu, and discovered East missing...and the lab coat...the stolen suit...and it would all make perfect sense! And 'I know where to look,' one guard would say, and soon a search party would form and scour the streets of the city, looking for the Austrian's apartment, too; for West's car parked parallel in front of a building, and they'd know then, surely, just where to find East. With his brother. With the Austrian. And damn it to Hell, thought East. This is the first place they'll look for me!

And so he slid to the floor, and outstretched himself face-down upon the carpet. Rubbing his hands, as if to erase every thought and emotion. He scratched his nose to the carpet, like a dog forced to rub his nose in his own mess and mistake; to be punished. But there was nothing there?! He hadn't soiled anything. He hadn't ruined the world, or dirtied the walkway, or hurt a creature, a fly, a single living thing. Not really, anyway. At least not alone. But he listened now, with his ear to the ground, and he could hear voices echoing through the floorboards. And he could hear a most familiar sound: his brother asking for a drink. For a flask to be poured. And 'IT'S HIM!!' East wanted to scream. 

Yes, he could hear it now. West's voice. The Austrian's footsteps. Apartment D43. 

***

On a patch of white carpet where a welcome mat should be, the Austrian tapped one foot -- one shiny white shoe atop a brown matted stain -- and watched as West crossed the room, and slumped down onto the sofa.

Grabbing at his empty cup beneath the lamp upon the table, West held it out, shaking it, expecting it to be filled.

 _'Ahem'_ , he cleared his throat to try and rush the other man to his side; wanting him to play barkeep, and 'hurry up, I don't have all evening to tell you my deep dark secrets...' and just where to start, West had no idea, but the sooner he got it over with, the better.

Yet the Austrian just stood there. Silent now, still studying West, finding it odd how the blond suddenly looked less charming; less like a gentleman. And it wasn't so funny, he deemed, how West now seemed the more brutish of the two brothers. 'At least East has a good sense of humor,' the Austrian mused. 'At least East has a certain sweetness about him. At least East...'

Put up with his smug demeanor.

At least East dreamed of him, nightly, and often in the daylight. 

At least East kissed him, and wanted to; how he longed to be close to him...

And the Austrian smiled, for something inside of him melted away, and his heart beat fast, and it hurt a bit; to have his heart beat so hard and so fast. To have it ache in his chest. To have his throat feel it would soon close up. And the tender skin about it, not bruised, but...the Austrian moved his hands to that little bow in the center of his collarbone. And he traced his fingers across it, despite the torn purple shirt, which kept his skin from touching skin. And somewhere, amongst the torn fabric, he felt the silver cross. And he wanted to place it between his lips, and what a silly thing, the Austrian thought. To want to put the cross between his teeth. And bite down? Floss his teeth?! God, East was silly, he thought. What a charming way to act, and a charming way to be. The sweet man. The childlike soul, locked away in a prison like a bird in a cage, and for a moment -- and if only a moment; a long overdue moment -- the Austrian thought and dreamed: 'I wish he were free.' 

***

East _was_ free. Rolling onto his back upon the hallway carpet, and staring up at the ceiling with a soulful grin. The biggest of the evening.

Tears in his eyes, East leapt to his feet. 

Bounding the few inches needed to face the door of the Austrian's apartment, he leaned his ear against it, and listened, just in case.

'I know it is...I know it is!' he thought, but...best to make sure. And so East listened closer a moment, while hidden, within reach.

***

Inside the apartment -- on the other side of the door -- the Austrian stared at West on the sofa.

West, with his arm outstretched, and a cup in his hand, expecting...waiting. An empty cup, and he wanted it filled with whatever the Austrian had hiding in that flask.

The Austrian finally nodded, taking his hand from his neck, and letting the cross hang where it may. No placing it between his lips; no flossing his teeth with the chain. And he crossed the room, and shut his eyes, and smiled. 

"Of course," the Austrian said. "How rude of me to get distracted." And he opened his eyes, if only slightly; narrowed eyes, and a somewhat smug grin. "If you like to drink, then yes, let's drink!" And from the tray, he took the flask, and unscrewed its silver lid.

Towering the opened flask over the German's empty cup, he asked, "You do like Scotch, don't you?" and began to pour without waiting for an answer, adding only, "Say when."

And the Austrian poured and poured, filling the German's cup until the whiskey nearly spilt over the silver brim and onto the floor.

West finally nodded. "When," he said, and sort of laughed, but it was more akin to a cough or a grunt.

"You're going to like it," said the Austrian. "It's very expensive, and now I know you're a man of money, right?" A man of _something_...thought the Austrian. Remembering the fat-lined wallet the German had flashed, while emptying out a stack of cash into that guard's hand. Recasting the violinist as a prostitute. A mere body to do West's bidding. To make his brother happy. His poor brother, alone on a holiday. And if West was so worried about East's happiness, maybe he should have loaned out his so-called 'cute' Italian boyfriend for such services; to keep East company in that broom-closet. And why not? To buy the Austrian was an insult. West had no dibs on him, so what right did he have to sell him?! But ah, had he not, the Austrian wouldn't know...he wouldn't have learned; his idea of West altered, yet still thinking of East as sweet, and silly, and childlike, and thus the Austrian realized, maybe it wasn't so bad...to belong to the man in the Prussian blue jumpsuit. To be sweethearts with an inmate. On the other side of the prison walls? On the other side of the apartment door...

East waited. His palm flat against the wood. His ear pressed against it. And he was waiting for something, sure. A sign, maybe. With his ear leaned against the shut door, and with his other hand two inches from the knob; his fingers left hovering above it like the bell in the lobby. His hand, waiting and gloved; his hand...cleaner than most expected; his hand, no longer cold and wet, but warm and waiting, and...

West, on the sofa, pulled the cup to his lips, and breathed in; the scent of single malt Scotch, and it looked a bit like tea, but it smelt like a warm bath spiked with whiskey; something soapy? Akin to cleanliness, but no Godliness. Something sickly, or maybe just medicinal. Antiseptics, harsh and burning, or anesthetics to put you to sleep, yet there was also something natural; at least one hint of autumn, trees, or a grain which grows in a field somewhere north of where the one man sat, and the other man stood, and the third unseen man leaned against a door. 

"You could drink with me," said West, and with his free hand, he patted the sofa; the empty spot next to him. "Join me," he said, in a slightly patronizing tone, but he forced a smile, as if hopeful the Austrian would acquiesce.

"You told me you'd tell me everything," said the Austrian, setting the flask back onto the tray without screwing the lid back onto the flask. Instead, he held the silver lid in his hand, and tossed it, like a baseball pitcher atop a mound, and the bases were loaded, and the German had two outs, and was gearing up to bat. The Austrian's big chance. He knew it. He knew he could beat West! At...something; whatever it was, the Austrian wasn't quite sure. But to have himself bought and sold; to be accused of loving East; sobbing in the arms of the blond, and having to feel like such a fool; it was all West's fault!! To sob, all while longing to be held by a man he once deemed stronger -- better than the brother -- but once he was finally held by him...it all felt wrong somehow. To want West instead of East. To want West to stay the night, yet...he hated him now. Or feared he did. To think of how belittled West made him feel. And he peered down at the man on his sofa, and for a moment -- a short one, though perhaps it, too, was long overdue -- the Austrian wished the Scotch was spiked with cyanide. 

Tea-like indeed. A most unforgiving drink, the Scotch whiskey. Expensive, though, definitely, hence the Austrian watched with some proud expression as the German took long sips from his cup. And in return, the Austrian sighed, and finally took a seat next to him. 

"I knew you'd like it," the Austrian said. "It's good, right?"

West nodded again, and after a pause, he set the cup to his lap, holding tight to the dainty handle.

"You're going to keep this between us, aren't you??" West asked.

The Austrian smiled. "Of course," he said. "Anything you feel the need to confess...let's have it." 

And that was all West needed to hear. He dropped the cup. The china cup, still half-filled with the tea-looking, non-poisoned substance to the white carpet, and he whimpered, God help him, as he turned, and buried his face in the Austrian's chest. 

And for a moment -- a short and painful one -- the Austrian didn't know what to do with his arms or his hands! 

West almost crying; West almost atop him!!

Thus the Austrian's eyes went wide. He gasped, and turned his head, but there was no where else to face. No where to turn to; no one else in the room. No one else to pin the blame on. He had broken this man, and he had invited him in, and he had offered him tea, and warmth and 'good cheer' on Christmas Night, and all the Austrian wanted was a solid explanation, and then for another warm and living body to crawl into bed with him; to sleep beside him, lest he have to sleep alone, and if they made love, they made love, but it wasn't important, really. To feel vulnerable was never fun, and to be made to feel a fool of was the worst part of all; to feel in debt to another human being; to feel taken advantage of was Hell. And he felt it often, the Austrian. Every time he let himself get close to someone else, he later wanted to crawl beneath some unseen porch, like a sick dog, and die, where no living creature could see him, or judge him, or hear him. 

But East heard. He heard his brother's words. The choked-back muttering of an unfinished line: 'The truth is...'

\-- Finally, the sign East was looking for.

He pounded against the door of the Austrian's apartment. 

The exaggerated knock sounded throughout the confines of the over-decorated sitting room. 

"It's him," West said, and he knew.

How he knew, was anyone's guess, but his eyes went wider than the Austrian's, who might as well have been slapped a moment ago, his cheeks were that red, but now he looked like he'd just seen a ghost, for his face went sheet-white.

"How do you know?!" said the Austrian, but...they both knew. There was no guess. No one could imagine how they knew, but the sound of it all...as if God had struck up a band in Heaven; a call to the dead; a concert just for them; to entertain the damned; playing a trumpet on high, and the dead will climb from their graves all at once. Armageddon. The Rapture. When the dead will rise, and march from our sight, and onto Heaven, and everyone will know. Everyone will stop and stare and watch. And they knew. The knock upon the door. It sounded throughout the room like a death march. A soldier's drum. Like a lonely man, escaped from a prison...

Standing in an apartment hallway with no shoes upon his feet. Cowardly now, for East wasn't sure what to say to the other two men. But he kept smiling, God damn it. He kept that grin. What a keeper! And he peered through the peephole, or tried to. Not realizing...

Meanwhile, the Austrian had leapt from the sofa, or tried to; first having to push away West before he could race clear across the room.

He reached the door, and threw it open; not bothering with the peephole, for he knew...and there he saw him; his living proof.

"East," he said, and it was almost like music. The sound of the Austrian's voice. 

And East stood with his arms open wide. "You," he said, and he laughed at himself, because he didn't know what else to call the man -- the beautiful man, and beautiful sight, and the beautiful face -- on the threshold of the apartment doorway. 

"Me," laughed the Austrian, and he held his arms out, too, as if waiting to be picked up and lifted into the arms of a loved-one; like a child who can't wait for a grownup -- or at least someone stronger and taller and sturdier built -- to carry them around the room. And surely even the Austrian could be soft and sweet; a Christmas miracle, perhaps, but no. Both men were childlike, really, in their need for affection. Both of them in their early twenties, thus they had a whole lifetime ahead for playful greetings at the door, 'how was your day, Honey,' the delicate one lifted into the arms of the tougher one to be brisked off to the bedroom for love-making, and other non-necessary things. To be held, really, was bliss. Not having to pass through each nighttime alone. To have someone next to you. To have someone love you! Anyone. Even...

"East," West said, as he leaned forward on the sofa. No leaping, though. No rising. Not moving from his seat. Only forward a bit, as if in a shocked state of disbelief. Was this a ghost? He thought surely East would end himself today. He thought maybe...being close to the Austrian would give him hope, sure, but for how much longer could East really hold out?? And he was glad his brother was alive. Thrilled! Relieved!! But it didn't change the fact West had been warned of the suicidal tendencies -- the 'despondency' -- East had shown recently. How the warden mentioned it with genuine concern and care for a young man whose trial he had followed quite closely. What he thought of the verdict, he never shared. East didn't strike him as a killer who dumped a body in a river, but what other verdict can be reached when a lone suspect enters a guilty plea? The warden didn't have time to worry about the past, only the present, and once the Austrian had been bought or sold, and West was in the hall alone, a guard had whispered more about how sure they all were East would end his life, and on Christmas, because it was a day known for suicides, at least in their prison, in his years of experience, and he thought it best for West to take himself and that nice musician home. Let East go whichever way the sun sets. But little did they know. East was always looking forward. Always moving forward. Despite any slip-ups. Despite any despondency. East was always looking, not in rear-view mirrors, but over his shoulder. Over a river. Over to the better days ahead, and to a future, and brightness, and hope. Hope, damn it. And to God. And to ceilings. And birds in flight. And sunrises! Always hope.

And East, with his outstretched arms, stepped towards the Austrian, and he grabbed him, lifting him up, and he squeezed and he hugged. Lifting the Austrian from the floor, and when East squeezed his body tight, the Austrian made the cutest and warmest hum. Like a bride squealing in delight when her soldier husband comes marching home. The war finally over, or maybe the soldier just shed his uniform and went AWOL. Same result. For either way, sweethearts embrace, and cute noises are made. All thanks to East. And he's alive and free, the hum seemed to say, and now they could spend the rest of their lives making a place in this world for themselves. And a home; a _real_ home, and a family. -- Even if Mr. Whisker Schnitzels remained their only son. -- But with no more lies, or secrets, or broom-closets. No more filthy ways of showing their interest...their obsession...their love. And so what if it was one-sided once? To the Austrian, East's embrace felt like something not too far askew from the comforting feelings of home, and surely it wasn't silly to hope for a whole eternity of it.

And so East hugged the Violin Boy. He hugged him tight, and rocked him back and forth in his arms. Never wanting to let him go. Or give him up. Both with shut eyes, and the Austrian cried, and East wasn't too far behind, as he rubbed his cheek to the Austrian's cheek, and he whispered, "You're happy to see me?"

But in that moment, West did rise from the sofa. He did cross the room, and he wiped a tear from his own cheek as he approached the men, with his heavy hands, and a heavy heart. 

He grabbed the two men on the threshold...and he pulled them close to him. And they stood there like that: the three men. West hugging the Austrian, as the Austrian was hugged by East. 

***

West had his hands at the small of his own brother's back, but he buried his face at the Austrian's neck.

"I'm so glad to see you, Brother," West said. "I'm glad you're alive." 

And the door was still open wide. The three men on the threshold, and the Austrian pressed between the two brothers, and he was finding it hard to breathe! The tightness in which they held him. Pressed in between East's chest, and West's chest, and the Austrian wanted to laugh; he felt like he was the meat in some sort of sandwich! The schnitzel housed between two pieces of potato bread. And oh the silly things he imagined, as the two men hugged him, almost as if wasn't there at all; as if he were but a detail, yet...the two brothers hugged each other through him, sure; as if he were a conductor of love and electricity; but also, they both hugged him as an actual human being. They didn't love him for the sake of his beautiful face alone, or for what physical pleasure he might could offer them. No. The brothers loved each other as brothers should, and they loved the Austrian, for without him, how would East have lived for that past month? How would East have risen from his bed every morning? How would he have reached the holiday season, without that painting on his wall. Without that face to peer down at him. That man in the painting, and that face in his dreams. Without the violin song to sing him to sleep every night. And _I dream of you nightly, I dream of you often_ , and, _Just how hard do you think I can hug you and my brother until you find it hard to breathe?_ And it felt like bliss now, really, to be hugged and be held by the two men at once. And really...it wasn't so bad, this showing of emotion. To West and to East. And the Austrian stood there, on the threshold, as the meat in the sandwich, as it were, and he smiled through his tears, as the two brothers hugged, and he thought of the concert he played for the sake of charity. For the sake of making a name for himself. Even if the brothers never spoke it...would never speak it...even if the brothers didn't care! To make a name for himself. To have his name in the press; for the sake of good press! The concert he played. And without West, the Austrian would have never given East a second glance. And without East, West would have never been tempted to spill his guts -- or more aptly, his heart -- about the whole muddled affair. About the death of an innocent man, and it seemed so lost now; somewhere in the details. And without the Austrian, the two men wouldn't be standing in an apartment right now. With no other side in sight. With the door open wide. And the two sides were together. Not one brother above, and the other below. Without walls and gates and fences to separate them. Without bars on the window. Without a slender bed to lie upon, and wish you were dead, but...

The Austrian had shut his eyes, lost in a dream; in bliss; in a rare moment of truth and happiness; and he felt lips pressing against his. And a nose nudging its way down, in an effort to lift the Austrian's head. Fingers at his chin, uplifting his face further. And he also felt lips at the back of his neck. A kiss at the nape. And fingers on his shoulder, and...

There was one too many cardinal directions on this threshold! 

The Austrian's eyes shot to open and wide like the door, and he peered ahead to see East with shut eyes, and something starving in his shut gaze. In his demeanor. His face red, and his cheeks wet, from the tears which streamed only seconds before. 

And behind the Austrian stood West, with something a bit more than friendship in his grasp; in the way he was clinging tight to the Austrian, with kisses, and whiskey on his breath. 

But..."You be safe," West said, after placing the second or third kiss to the nape of the Austrian's neck, because hell, he couldn't reach another place! His big brother, East, was now kissing all about the Austrian's lips and cheeks, and crying, and nudging, and nuzzling tight, and West smiled. Not knowing where else to kiss good-bye! And he grasped tight to the Austrian's shoulder one last time. Then patted it, before moving his palm to East, and he patted his brother on the back, as he walked past, and over the threshold, and out the door, and at least East pulled away from the Austrian, to turn, and gasp, and smile, and wave good-bye to his brother, whom yes, East wanted to hug, and say aloud a more audible good-bye. Hell, he wanted to sit on the sofa, and have a cup of tea, or Scotch -- anything but cyanide! -- and tell his brother the whole story of how he had escaped, but...East only had so much time!! 

And West knew it. Thus he waved to his brother, who was once against lost, and buried deep in the arms of the Austrian, and East stepped forward, pushing -- or pulling along with him, like a wave carrying a boat out to sea -- the Austrian into the apartment with him. 

And West lingered in the hall just long enough to reach for the door, fiddling about in search of the latch, and he locked it tight before easing it shut. "You two have fun," he whispered. And West stepped away from the Austrian's apartment. Away from his escaped-convict brother. Away from the guilt, and away from the confession, because sometimes, life is meant to be this way: sometimes, someone else takes the blame, because they have a good heart, and they truly believe they have the strength and the mindset to survive in a certain kind of place they feel their beloved brother couldn't or shouldn't have to handle. And it was East's idea. East's good faith. And East had wanted it this way. 

And so West walked away. He found the stairwell, and he grabbed tight to the railing. He balanced himself, and he walked down the stairs, and he graced the lobby, and he didn't ring a bell, and no angel got his wings -- but didn't he? Didn't East... -- and West threw open the door of the aristocratic brownstone-esque apartment complex, and as he reached the street, he looked to the sky and he smiled again. 

The snow was falling again.

And thank God again. 

East was alive, and the secret was kept, and, "That sheepish damn smug Austrian DOES love my brother," West sighed. 

And he climbed into his car. Unlocked the door, and threw it open, and with his arms open wide, he sort of hugged himself, there behind the wheel of his car. And it felt good to be loved. It felt good to get a weight off his chest. To tell the Austrian just what he thought of him. Exactly what he knew? No. What he felt. What he hoped to be true. And yes, the Austrian was in love -- the stubborn old snob -- and it was a good thing West had so much cash with him today. A lucky break. Or maybe all along he knew he'd buy the 'favors' of the Austrian for East, but...now, he didn't have to buy anything. Now, the services of the Austrian were free. And to be loved...to have and to hold, and be held...up there, several stories above ground; of his own free will, the Austrian was in the arms of East, and East was living his dream. East was a free man, and...

"I better get this car out of here!" West suddenly said to himself. And he stuck the key into the ignition, and turned, and hoped to God the car had enough gas to drive home, or at least some place far enough away from the Austrian's apartment building. Because the cops would come: West was sure of that. They would catch wind of East's escape. They would search for him, and track him down, like a dog, and like a dog, they would rub his nose in his mistake. In his mess. The one he created for himself? Yes. This time, West's hands were clean. And he wrapped them tight and heavy and freezing about the ice-cold steering wheel, and he breathed in deep, the fumes from the heater, and the fumes from the shuddering engine's last semblance of sputtering exhaust. 

'Please, God,' he prayed. 'Let East get what he dreams of before they end his escape.' 

To end his innocence. That was all East dreamed of. And West knew this from the letters his brother penned, and...

Up in the apartment building. Past the window, and the champagne-colored curtains, and the warm body of the sleeping cat on the sill, two figures were casting shadows across the floor near a lamp. Near a green-striped sofa. And...

West drove home. Yes, with just enough gas...and he walked to his own door, and crossed the floor of his own house. The one he bought himself. He, and his brother. And he stripped his clothes clean from his body, and he crawled into bed. To lift a black rotary phone from its place on the nightstand. And he placed a call to his cute Italian boyfriend. 

"Yes, I'm home now," he said. "And yes, I'm safe."

And what a nice end to his otherwise not-so nice Christmas. But East was alive, and West, as he lay awake, chatting into a phone, in lieu of dining on a Christmas feast, was glad of that, at least. But he knew...the escape wouldn't last. The freedom would end. But he would think about that later. Tomorrow. When kids all over the world are waking up to the day after. The morning where ripping into gifts is just a memory. And the paper lays torn from the boxes. The ribbon in shreds. And there will be no more joy until next year. What a long wait! And it all seemed sad somehow, to give East a nice break, only to take it away from him...but maybe, West thought, as the Italian boyfriend prattled on about his day, 'Maybe East will make it out of here,' he thought and he hoped, 'for good.' And maybe, once West was more awake -- once he had rested -- maybe he or the Austrian, or both, could help. Find a place to hide him. Find a safe place, now that East was on their side again.

Living a life of freedom, but always hiding. Always to remain hidden. And a bird in a cage isn't too far away from a bird in a bush. A light kept hidden. And living in fear? Well, on either side -- no matter how you slice it -- East was damned to live in some form of fear. Best to let him hide out here, than to waste away in darkness. 


	11. Chapter 11

In the sitting room, near the green-striped sofa, East stood with his arms wrapped around the Austrian, and he cursed himself for kissing him. East cursed himself, because he should have waited, he thought, until he could brush his damn teeth again! Not clean enough...

But he opened his mouth, and now it was the Austrian who seemed desperate to fill small spaces...and he held one hand at the side of East's face. As if balancing. As if relying on his thumb at East's cheek for the sake of good aim. For the sake of delving his tongue into the prisoner's mouth, and no, he didn't know what else may have entered there earlier in the day. 

And East wanted to bite down just to stop it.

He pulled away. Rubbing his hands the full length of his lab coat. Peering at his bare feet. "You think maybe we could get clean first?" East blurted. "You haven't even asked me how I got here," he sort of laughed. "If you let me take a bath, I'll tell you all about it! And I can get all nice and clean, and warm my feet..." he seemed to pause a moment in order to daydream. "And maybe you have a toothbrush I can borrow?" he asked. Flashing a sad little puppy dog gaze, and he forced a grin, but deep down, he meant it; just his nerves again, and not wanting to explain the situation, nor his fears. A more sympathetic tone appeared as he added, "You might want to brush your teeth now, too." 

The Austrian took a step back, separating their bodies even further, and he glared at East, unsure as to whether or not he should be offended. 'Just what is he implying? I don't smell good...I don't taste good...or...he isn't clean, and he's passed it on to me??'

Mouth agape, the Austrian inhaled sharply, running his fingers through his dark hair as if trying to buy time. And just where do you buy time? And where did he keep the extra toothbrushes?? Assuming he had any. And East could just borrow his, the Austrian thought, but then again, that sort of defeated the purpose, now didn't it? There was no right answer. No matter what he did, they would share whatever germs or sickness or disease East had brought into this place. Whatever filth or sin he carried with him: he would surely pass it on to the Austrian. By way of kissing, or by way of brushing his teeth; by sharing a toothbrush, or by 'getting clean', as East called it. And they _could_ wash together, sure, but by sharing a tub -- soaking in the same bath-water, which _would_ be nice, thought the Austrian -- they wouldn't get clean at all; not by sitting chest-deep in soap-scented dirt-filled water. Each other's filth. So no, they wouldn't be clean, just wet and dirty. The same way they started out! Except for the 'wet' part, and that only meant wasting towels. The Austrian exhaled, wondering why East wasn't as concerned about this during their broom-closet meeting. Escaping prison equals a dire need for better hygiene?! Well, whatever the reason -- whatever plagued East -- there was no washing it away now, and no use in trying. But of course, if it would please him...keep his spirits afloat, then fine.

"Yes, I can run a bath for you," the Austrian decided, and he nodded several times as if guilt-stricken for not answering sooner.

Meanwhile, East had busied himself by peeling off his gloves; looking about the room, studying the furnishings and decorations. "Fancy guy like you, and I figured you'd say, I can 'draw' a bath..." 

The Austrian lifted the flask from the silver tray, and smiled. "Sure," he said, "and then a silly guy like you would just joke, 'Oh really? Draw a bath. Where's the paper and pen. Draw a picture of a bath for me, then!" the Austrian laughed. "Something silly like that, right?" 

And East smiled, but had trouble following. He grinned, but sort of grimaced, and shook his head. "Sure," he said, but trailed off a moment, eventually stating, "If you say so," while tugging at the sleeves of his lab coat.

Freeing it from his body, he shed it slow, and let it wilt to the floor; almost absentmindedly. Almost as an afterthought. Undress before a bath is ran or drawn? Sure. Why not. Gotta get undressed sometime before soaking in a tub...or maybe East just wanted to feel a little more at home. After all, it had been over a year since he had been anywhere except for prison.

And while watching East undress, the Austrian took the flask, and without its lid, there was nothing to unscrew, so he held it to his mouth, and swigged; upturning the silver flask, forgoing the fine china, which no, wasn't the most gentlemanly way to drink it, but he kept his pinky finger raised in the air just like he always did. Always had. Yet soon he returned to the less-than-refined routine, for without his wool coat, he had no handkerchief, and without a handkerchief, he was forced to dry his mouth by patting it with the cuff of his purple shirtsleeve. "Here," he said, holding the flask out to East. "This will kill whatever you're so worried about," he assured, and grinned a soft grin as if to say, 'Please. Don't worry about me. Your germs are my germs. Your sins are my sins. Let's just get this settled for the night, yes?' A sincere gesture, but it had also dawned on the Austrian how alcohol might remedy this situation, not to mention it would be a hell of a lot quicker than a God damn bath! The sooner East was at ease, the sooner they could get back to kissing, and so the Austrian motioned to the flask. "Take it," he said.

East smiled a somewhat odd smile; his head cocked to one side, still trying to figure this guy out! And a new plan was needed...just how to get clean enough to touch the Austrian again. How to get clean enough to kiss him again; to let him get close enough, to delve his tongue into East's mouth again, and East knew he didn't deserve it; he knew he couldn't kill whatever it was that truly plagued him, but...

"It's worth a shot, right?" East asked, or maybe said. And he winked, the cutie, and grinned that keeper grin. He knew...the Austrian wanted back in, too; the Austrian wanted to be held, and if this was the way he wanted to 'get clean', then sure. Why not wash it away, and drown it out. 

So East took the flask, and killed it. Drank all that was left! Swallowing hard, and it's funny how it didn't burn his throat at all. He let it slide down, with a tongue gone limp, and he didn't even shut his eyes. Just Scotch whiskey, and it tasted sweet, almost like nothing to him now. He lowered the flask, and, "You've got some good stuff here," he laughed. "But I prefer beer," he added. "Just for future reference." 

"Future," said the Austrian, and he almost blushed. "I'll try to remember that." A coy smile, and he took the flask, and set it back to the tray. Well, actually he tossed it, and it clanked hard, but both men ignored it. The Austrian too busy reaching for the suit sleeve of East. Grabbing at it, he giggled when he realized, "You don't even have a shirt on under this thing!" 

And East giggled too. He looked down at the Austrian -- only due to an inch or two of height difference -- and smiled. "I stole it!" he whispered, and his voice was shrill but soft, and his smile so playful. So cute and charming, and surely the Austrian was blushing completely now. To be flirted with. To be spoken to as if the two were young lovers, and not full-grown men so desperate to make a deal. Strike up some agreement to spend the night together. To help the Austrian's career? Nope. This one was strictly off the record. No more entertaining prisoners for the sake of charity nor press. His name in the papers, but no where near the tip of East's tongue. And sure enough, his last lover had been some French journalist who swore he had the Austrian's best interest in mind, but obviously no where close to his heart. And how much the French bastard could help his career was the driving force to get the Austrian in his arms, and into bed with him, and it was no quiet comfort to be held in the arms of a man who wanted him for one thing, and one thing only. No charming way of speaking; no flirtation; no worrying about how clean you are first. And this was sweet, thought the Austrian. How much East cares...how East was already talking about a future with him.

"Beer," said the Austrian, wrapping his arms around East's shoulders; his hands finding their way to the nape of East's neck. "Well, I'll be sure to buy some the next time I go out." He fiddled with the silver wisps of East's hair muddled and lost somewhere in the depths of the collar of the stolen suit jacket. "Along with a shirt," joked the Austrian. And he leaned in closer still, and whispered, "Or you could just borrow one of mine." 

East peered down, and shut one eye as if trying to focus; as if trying to realize, 'Just what does that mean?' As if it was supposed to sound tempting! But he sort of laughed, and his cheeks went red. "You think I want to borrow one of yours?!" he scoffed, and fluffed at the ruffles of the Austrian's purple shirt. "You're crazy!" he said. "I'd look like a girl in that thing!!" And he meant for it to sound playful and cute, and not so loud or judgmental, but...he was still pretty new to this whole flirtation business. Or if not new, it had been a while, at least.

And the Austrian was taken aback. Standing stiff with his fingers in East's hair; with an offended air about him. Something...not hurt, per se, but close. Awfully close. And the Austrian's face went pale as he said, "Yes, well..." and he didn't quite know _what_ to say! 

"Never mind," said East, and he forced a laugh; something boisterous, perhaps, and he smiled in a desperate attempt to soften the mood; start over, in a way, and he inched forward, as if cozying his way into the Austrian's open arms, and, he hoped, back into the Austrian's good graces. 

"Here," East said. "Let me try again..." he cleared his throat. "I like your fluffy purple shirt, and it tastes pretty good, too, if you can believe that," he laughed. "You think maybe I could borrow it sometime?" And he knew he was wasting time, to cater to the Austrian's offended air, and to prattle on about ruffly shirts, and God no, he didn't want to borrow it. It looked nice on the Austrian, sure, but they were two different creatures. A gorgeous guy like the Austrian could wear such delicate things; not East. No thank you! Stolen suits and Prussian blue jumpsuits were good enough for him. Yet...no, he thought, shaking his head. They _weren't_ good enough!

"Hmm," East said, and he went from shaking his head no to nodding it yes. "We'll just buy a new suit for me sometime later. We'll have enough time for all that. We'll find something. I'm sure we will..." And he tried to laugh, but he couldn't even force it; nothing left for the moment. He just stared hard at the Austrian, who was standing somewhat listless in his arms; staring at the floor now, because he didn't have the answers, either. Fell silent. And East kept waiting for some sort of remark. Some form of comfort. He touched his hand to the Austrian's chin, and lifted it, so those violet eyes would meet his. "We'll have time, right??" East asked in a high-pitched whine.

The Austrian smiled. Whiskey on his breath, and tears in his eyes. "Sure," he said, nodding in return; a narrowed gaze. Not wanting to break. Not wanting to sob. "We'll have time."

East, so desperate to believe it, hugged the Austrian like saying thank you with his whole body and his racing heart pressed against the chest of the violinist. Sighing in relief near his ear, which warmed the Austrian's whole body, yet East began to ramble on about the prospect of a new suit again. Listing off his size; his exact measurements. Making note of his favorite colors, and requesting a flashy tie.

"Make sure it's the most awful shade of green, so you'll never want to borrow it!" he teased. "And you can wear pretty purple ties, or maybe pink ones, with flowers on them, and..." he forgot his point the second the Austrian's eyes started to fall shut and his lips formed a smile not due to the chat, but due to the fact East had edged closer and closer -- as close as he could -- which isn't hard when you're locked in a hug.

Recalling his point, East sighed again, and, "That's right, you don't usually wear ties..." The silk white jabot reentering East's mind. Realizing the way the Austrian looked in the painting didn't quite match the way he looked in that sitting room. So dignified and regal in the painting, and now...with eyes falling shut, and lips forming a smile: it looked more like an invitation, or a plea to shut up already, and kiss me again.

***

Oh this harmless flirtation. Yet it was harmful, in a way...for the two want-to-be lovers _were_ running out of time! And the law on its way. The guards on their way. Plowing forth from the Grover Downs Reformatory once discovering East was missing from the infirmary. And so, in light of his absence, on Christmas Day-into-Night, a search party had begun to search the woods; scouring the earth for any sign of East or the stolen car. And they knew where to find West...in his bed, in his room, in the stone house in his name. 

But where to find that musician who had visited the prison only that afternoon? The guard from the visitation room was questioned, as to whether or not he thought the violinist had aided, in any way, in Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven's escape. 

'I don't know,' the guard had shrugged, standing in the doorway of his own home; wearing slippers and a robe. The guard of the visitation room receiving his own visit for once. No glass to keep him away from the warden and the other higher-up authorities who stood on his welcome mat. His thin little wife peeking out past the door-frame of their bedroom, hoping to God her husband wasn't in trouble; wasn't getting fired; hoping the raised voices of some of those higher-up authorities less calm than the warden wouldn't wake her small kids.

'Then what about his brother?' the warden had asked, and the visitation room guard kept mum about everything, especially the bribe money paid to him by West. But saving his own ass wasn't the only thing on his mind, for at least East had one guard on his side; one guard who saw the light in East's eyes, and thought, 'This guy ain't so bad. Not bad at all, really. Kinda nice. Maybe a little crazy, but...God, I hope he makes it. I hope he gets the hell out of dodge, and away from this place! Good for him. And good luck to him. Merry Christmas to him...'

 _And to all a good night_ , might as well have been added to the guard's unspoken diatribe.

A great damn night, and hope -- hope! Of all things -- on the horizon. 

Along with other events, still miles from the search party...

East leaned in, wanting nothing more now than to let the Austrian back in to small spaces to fill, and to let him delve his tongue into whatever mess the alcohol surely did kill. 

"But you can take care of that tomorrow, maybe," East said of the new suit and tie, damn near whispering into the Austrian's mouth. Standing near the green-striped sofa, and pawing at the ruffly-but-torn purple shirt, and breathing out deep with his eyes half-shut. "I'm sure everything will be on sale, right? Day after Christmas and all...but tonight," he said, "well...it's still Christmas, and..." he nosed his way two inches from the Austrian's lips, "I'd really like a Christmas gift, Violin Boy." 

The Austrian opened his mouth, but sort of smirked. "I do have a name, you know." 

East laughed. "I know. Of course I know!" He reverted to a lower tone, "But I don't really care about that now..."

And that's just what the Austrian _didn't_ want to hear. 

East didn't care??

"But..." the Austrian began, "surely you DO care?! And what if I want to know your real name first!"

East shrugged. "And what if I won't tell you," he grinned. 

The Austrian pulled his right hand from East's neck, and raised it, as if tempted to slap the prisoner's cheek, but...of course he was only playing, and just how far do you think I'll let you push my buttons before I give in...before I let you make a meal of me...a Christmas gift, indeed! But...it's amazing what the Austrian was willing to put up with. On a snowy Christmas night. And the law on its way, surely. 

And East smiled, but knew his time was nearly up. The Austrian's buttons pushed just far enough for one night. And he shut his eyes, and headed in for a kiss he wasn't scared to give. For a kiss his brother didn't have to buy for him. For a kiss he was most sure the Austrian would return with the same amount of want, and at least the kiss was sanitized ahead of time thanks to the Scotch, and...

"Shush," the Austrian had begun to say, but it melted into a hum. As East was now too close; all the way on, and tongue in. His lips pressed to the Austrian's, and...

This was it, thought East. All he had ever wanted, since that November night when he first saw the Austrian's face. The Violin Boy. The Man in the Painting. And what's in a name?

He kissed long and without much breath. And just how far...ah, that too melted away. No want of biting down; no want of creating a pearly, albeit cigarette-stained, gate with his teeth, to shut the Austrian out, nor did East wish to create anything akin to that holiday's earlier mess or ruckus, such as choking, or slime, or any killing of time other than that filled by sweet and deep kisses, as the two men soon wilted to their knees. There on the white carpet of the Austrian's sitting room. Near the green-striped sofa. And Mr. Whisker Schnitzels, the Austrian's beloved and small gray cat, may have awoken, and purred right along with the two men. 

They stretched out alongside one another, on the floor, and with quick hands tore at each other's clothes. East's stolen suit jacket tossed aside first -- thrown overboard -- towards the apartment door. And soon the ruffly purple shirt was ripped to damn near shreds! Teeth-marks, and the hole ripped that afternoon gained new friends, like overgrown moth-bites multiplying in the garment, and East wanted to floss his teeth upon its remnants. He unfastened the belt at the Austrian's waist. Using his fingers, lest he break his teeth, and he laughed a bit -- if only a bit -- at the sweet song the metal belt-latch made as it jangled once unhinged, and the way it clanked against a side-table, when East threw it across the room, and _crash!_ _Boom!_ Shattered glass, and the sound of a bulb bursting, and all the lights went out; not that there were many; the singular soft light emitting from the corner, to barely fill the room -- at least one side of it -- was gone in an instant; no fading for effect. Just _boom!_ And the room went unlit; all was darkness; pitch-black; no white carpet. Just the streetlamp outside the apartment complex now shone in past the champagne-colored curtains; a dull and hazy gold and ghost-like 'idea' of a light from outside the room. 

"I think I broke your lamp!" East said, and the two men laughed. 

"I don't care," said the Austrian, while lying alongside the prisoner. "I never liked that ugly old thing, anyway," and he turned his head, to flood kisses upon East's cheek; craning up a bit, to pepper his forehead with more kisses. 

"But you do like me, don't you?" asked East in the darkness. "A little bit??" he seemed desperate to double-check.

"Mm-hmm," said the Austrian. "A little bit," he teased, and while he teased with his voice, he teased with his hand...letting it slip down East's body, grabbing at the upper hem of the stolen suit pants. 

"Ha," said East, and no, it wasn't a laugh. He breathed in deep, and this was it, this was it, he thought. No staring at a painting. No more pretending. No more doing this for himself. 

And East shut his eyes, and let his head lean against the Austrian's shoulder. Their necks sort of craned together, as they lied upon the floor. 

"You're gonna be disappointed," East whispered in reference to a single lack of readiness. "I'm not..."

The Austrian hesitated a moment: in speech, and with his hand; letting his palm linger, with two fingers slipped past the hem. "Not yet, maybe," he said, once realizing what East had meant. "But just..." he began, and smiled in the darkness. "Give me a minute, and..."

The Austrian rose from the floor in order to kneel, and he pushed at East's bare chest, so as to make the prisoner lie flat on his back. "Give me a minute," he repeated, "And I'll..." he said, trailing off, and leaning down, with his mouth to the shirtless East; skimming his lips the length of East's chest and stomach: kissing and licking as he went.

But as his nipped his teeth at the button of East's pants, "DON'T!" East screamed, but then laughed, compulsive. "Don't, I mean," he said softly, as if trying to correct his tone. "I don't want you to," but then he laughed again, "I mean, I DO, but...I, uh," East stammered as he pulled himself to sitting. To face the Austrian, whom no, East could not see. Not in that dark small space. Not with only the streetlamp shining in. Not there on the white carpet, was it? The ghost-like light shining in past champagne-colored curtains, and it didn't do the room justice. To not be able to see the man's face. That Face. And...to have that face so close to something East deemed unworthy of filling such a small and beautiful space. To muffle out that beautiful voice, East once heard singing for him, and only him, he was convinced of it. In that assembly hall, that one November night. And to do such a thing would be an injustice to the Austrian. To have him...to let him...and it was a sin, a sin, a sin. To let him do what the guards had done to him. Out of hatred. Out of misery, and misery loves company, sure, but...why drag the Austrian down with him? Why let the musician get himself dirty, and want to have to brush his teeth five times a day? Floss his teeth with any damn thing he could get his hands on?! Like bed-sheets. Violin strings. And why let him know what it feels like to have slime inching down to his jawline. And it wasn't fair, really. To let the Austrian do anything to him; to let him lower himself to East's trashy and terrible level. To let him wallow on the white carpet, was it? To let him be an accomplice. To aide and abet East in his life of crime and sin.

A man of ill repute. A man damned to live out his days and nights in prison. Staring at a painting, and making bad use of a beautiful face.

\-- Surely it was a sin!

"I can't let you," East said. And there on the white carpet, he reached out, and graced his hands to the Austrian's equally-bare shoulders, and neither had gloves on their hands, yet nether had a wall of glass between them. Skin-on-skin, and fingers on flesh, and hand to bone, and nope. 'No, let's think about this...' East started to regret it. He wanted to wash his hands of it! And..."I'm sorry," East said. "I just can't let you." 

The Austrian huffed. "I'm not asking for permission here!" he said, and he thought it sounded coy, or playful -- or sexy, even: dare he think it -- but to East, it was all so angry. 

"I'm sorry!" East said again. And he wanted to cry. Surely he did. But he didn't want to cry. He didn't want to break. _And don't you worry, Brother,_ he penned in his mind, for that was the line he always jumped to and clung to in the onset of a breakdown, but he switched recipients, and in his heart, he prayed, 'I'm sorry to you too, God. I know I asked for this, but...I just can't go through with it,' and oh his heart, full of prayers or not, how it wanted to break...and maybe it did break. Maybe it did bend a bit further from where it usually sat and ached, and it was all so unfair. To feel so unclean, and not good enough, and untouchable to the hands of the Austrian, in the muddled light of that quiet room.

But the Austrian was blind to it. And so East should be too. The alcohol had killed whatever East didn't want the Austrian to delve into. To befall sickness, or bad health, or bad karma? Whatever it was East was so damn worried about, the Austrian didn't care, and sure, he could have risen from the floor, to run or draw a bath for the prisoner, but what for? He was clean enough, surely. Surely! He wasn't completely damned. He wasn't even guilty. No blood on his hands, but no gloves either. And the Austrian wasn't perfect. Unlike East, the Austrian wasn't a virgin. But it was all unbeknownst to the other, just what exactly, had come before, in each other's life; just who had come before; and neither knew, just what the other was thinking, there on that sitting room floor. 

But that's what talking is for. And what whispering is for. And the Austrian leaned close to East, and in his ear, he whispered words worth repeating, sure, but for the sake of the Austrian's dignity...

Ah, but for the most part he whispered, "Please let me."

And maybe, in a warm breath and hushed tone, added: "Or we can skip it, and..."

That's where East and the Austrian blushed, and joined hands. Where they rose from the floor, and raced through the dark -- the Austrian leading the way -- to the bedroom. To the plushy bed worthy of God himself resting his head. And as they neared it, and as the Austrian pushed the bedroom door shut behind him, he turned to East, and laced his arms about the prisoner's waist. Hands to his bare back, and he slid them upwards, returning them to that safe and inviting place otherwise known as the nape of East's neck. And those silver wisps of hair...and really, it was all so inviting, thought the Austrian. What an odd charm this man has! And what a sharp sense of direction...to know exactly where, once lifting the Austrian bridal style in his arms, as if East was ready to go trekking happily over some unseen threshold, to bless a newly-married couple's home; the Violin Boy in his arms, East lifted the Austrian, and -- knowing exactly which damn cardinal direction to turn, and drop, in the most delicate sense of the word; dropping? No. Laying. _And now I lay me down to sleep_... -- he placed the Austrian on the bed -- to the sheets -- and lied down atop him. And he prayed to God, their souls to keep. 'If I get caught before we wake, I pray thee God our souls you'll take!' Well, East's soul, anyway. Let the Austrian's soul remain right where it was: in his body. His body...and really, it was just as nice as his face. And East somehow slid their bodies upwards, by ways of clutching, and wiggling, and worked their way, while kissing, to the turned-down cuff of the sheets at the head of the bed. And once there, and once casting an abundance of pillows to the floor of the dark bedroom, East ripped back the covers of the bed. Sliding their way underneath. Downy blankets, and feathery bedding. Whatever fancy linens the Austrian kept there, they were soon torn back and hung wilted at the sides of the bed. Fancy pillows tumbled beneath the confines of the bed-frame. And the stolen suit pants were slid from East's body, but not by his own hands. And the Austrian tossed them, barely missing the nightstand. And it's a good thing he missed, because unlike the blue lamp in the sitting room, the lamp on the Austrian's nightstand was a priceless family heirloom!

"I want to be inside you," East said, while lying atop the Austrian. 

And the Austrian smiled, lying beneath him. "Well, that's the plan," he said.


	12. Chapter 12

East with his eyes shut. His face two inches from that face.

And the Austrian with one hand on the prisoner's cheek, and the other placed at East's hip, until he slid it to the small of East's back, as if ready to direct him, or help aim.

Balancing on a dime? Balancing on whatever East would soon give to him. And it was a Christmas gift the two could share. Both of them could enjoy it, unlike greedy children who refuse to share their new toy with an unruly sibling, or beautiful but spoiled little friend who wandered in, the day after Christmas, from the fancy house next door.

'But, Mom! I don't want to share my toys with him!!' a brat would whine, but no. Nothing of the sort.

Just two grown men, on Christmas Night, now almost ended; now getting close to the day after Christmas, and it hadn't felt like much of a holiday in its own right. But with the early light of day still hours away, and with West home in his own bed, with a black glossy telephone receiver perched loose in his hand, and with the Italian still on the line, but breathing into his own phone -- both lovers sleeping with phones near their mouths -- and with the search party of prison guards still scouring the woods where they found the stolen car, the Austrian and East had no reason to whine, nor be greedy with one another. With any of the gifts they offered. And their hands...ungloved, but also unwashed. Ah well. They ran their hands to whatever small spaces they thought needed filled, or felt.

"You take care of that, and I'll..." the Austrian said of his impending task, and there were other broken sentences streaming from their lips.

\-- Such as, 'Oh God, I don't know...' which was East protesting.

But while the Austrian reached down, it struck him as funny how East hadn't worn underwear; having no idea East went from donning a hospital gown, to nothing at all, to the stolen suit and lab coat. Not that it mattered. He grabbed, wrapping fingers around whatever East wasn't ready to have touched earlier in the evening, in the sitting room, and as he did so, 'Well well well,' thought the Austrian, East was sure ready now!

East gasped, and "God damn it," he said, as he shoved himself upwards, further into the Austrian's hand. He bit at his neck. Not hard. -- But yes, hard. 'Ready now.' -- But he didn't bite hard; sort of kissing with teeth until he forced his mouth away from the tender skin of the Austrian's neck. "God damn it," East repeated, and "Don't do that!" he said; back to protesting.

And the Austrian just laughed. Not letting go, but rubbing his fingers up and down the shaft. "Well, what do you want me to do?" he asked, grinning. "Where is your own hand!" he said, because there was no use in framing it as a question when they both knew the answer.

And now East laughed at himself. _Well sure. This. But I can explain_...hand caught in the cookie jar, maybe? No. Nothing quite so innocent; not a G-rated scene. With the Austrian's pants unfastened, and pushed down past his ankles, and to the bottom of the bed -- freed, and lost somewhere amongst the bed-sheets -- East had his own fingers working in some way or other, past the fabric of the Austrian's boxer shorts, nearing some small space East hoped to fill. But...how, he wasn't sure, for life is not a movie, nor a girly magazine, and the Austrian was, of course, no girl. And if East had ever done this before, then maybe he'd know exactly what to do, or what to ask for, but...he sort of lingered there, with his fingers past the tight confines of underwear, hoping the Austrian would offer some explanation. To how, exactly...and surely this will work? He didn't want to ask. He didn't want to admit he had never. But yes, he had _some_ idea. Just...

"The nightstand," the Austrian said, and here came those broken sentences again; those loose fragments, and heavy breaths, and soft tones, and it was all sort of whispered, and words left lingering, and trailing off, and in, and overhead; as if their words filled small clouds above the bed, like two cartoon characters in a comic strip, waiting for a writer, or for God himself to lean down with an almighty pen, and fill in the speech bubbles and captions, so they could finally say what they were too scared to imagine and articulate on their own.

Left to their own devices, the two fumbled about, shifting their weight, so East could lean over and grab a hold, with his free hand, what he assumed was a fixture on the nightstand drawer. And he rummaged about, until the Austrian sighed impatient, and, "Here, let me," the Austrian said, as he reached over with his own free hand, and rummaged about, and...finding what he was searching for, he smiled, and passed it on to the prisoner. "You have done this before, right?" the Austrian asked, and his smile faded, and it was the first time such a thought had occurred to him, and what an odd time to think of it! But...the way East seemed to hesitate. The odd way he grumbled, but sort of -- in that funny, shrill little way of his -- laughed, and East took the bottle, and damn near dropped it, and he was glad there was no light in the bedroom, lest the Austrian see his face, but then again, a little light right now might be helpful! And so would a map. A diagram. A rule book. A manual.

"I don't know what you mean," said East. "I've done this a lot! Don't you know how prisons work? We do this sort of thing all the time..." and his heart sank as he lied through his teeth. His cigarette-stained teeth, and that grin -- that keeper of a grin -- hurt his face to fake, but grinning wide in the dark served no real purpose. What did it matter? What difference did it make...if East was a virgin or not. If he was only learning by doing. If he was only making guesses, and surely it wouldn't be hard...but it was hard. The Austrian, and East, and both men were, there in each other's hand, in some form or other; or if not _in_ hands, then near them.

"And what about you?" East asked, hardly waiting for an answer. Going to work with the bottle of whatever the Austrian had given to him. And he had a damn good idea, of what it was, or at least what to do with it, once opening the lid.

"Ah," East said, "all right..." and he sort of edged his way down, but fumbled again, if only a bit.

"I've never been in prison," the Austrian deadpanned.

And too bad there _wasn't_ a light shining in the room, for if only he could have seen East's face at that comment!

But both soon fell silent, and unjudging again. Unaccustomed to such things or not, neither was whining, nor complaining...

And meanwhile, the search party raged on, looking through trees, and amidst every snowbank. With shovels, knocking back brush, and with large flashlights and lanterns, and shotguns, they wandered; kicking up dust -- powdery snow -- and scavenging the ground for any fresh tracks other than their own, and they screamed out amongst the men on the other side of the highway as the bloodhounds went wild. 'I think we got a scent!' a young guard said, and he waved one of East's belongings in his hand. A wad of Prussian blue fabric. His jumpsuit. The one shed from him in the infirmary. And the bloodhounds barked, yet soon grew quiet and ran forward, rushing through the snow, towards the direction of a town one might dub 'a historic district' a few decades from now. Where a brownstone-esque apartment complex towered over smaller residences and businesses. Walls of stone and brick, where rows of glass windows looked dark but awashed in gold, thanks to streetlamps, and past one particular lamp-pole, a wave of champagne-colored curtains blocked no light in a sitting room. Where the sounds and soft cries in a bedroom were all muffled out, thanks to a shut bedroom door, which no, the spoiled aristocratic Austrian had not thought to lock.

But at least West had remembered to lock the front door to the Austrian's apartment. Good ol' West. At least he had thought of that!

And so, amidst sheets, or blankets, or linen, or whatever bedding hadn't been torn back, and upon a purple fitted sheet, on a feathery, marshmallowy bed, the Austrian drew not pictures of baths, but deep breaths, as the prisoner finally figured out how to fill small spaces, and this wasn't so bad, really; no longer as scared. To take not by force, but by the gentle stroke of a hand. No gloves and no glass. Nothing between them but heat and sweat. And once pushing the silver wisps of hair out of his eyes for him, the Austrian said to East, "I think I'm ready."

And East said nothing, because what could he say? Two steps ahead of him, and ready to aim shoot and fire, and no balancing on dimes, nor clawing his way past an empty mop bucket from the far corner of a rented broom-closet in the Grover Downs Reformatory. Where a cell room lay empty tonight. Where a painting of a man on the wall which never crumbled; where the gum still stuck; affixed to the back of the Italian's artwork; the Man in the Painting smiled down at no one tonight, but East...he took his place back atop the Austrian, and smiled down at that face. Even if he couldn't see it. And he kissed the Austrian's forehead.

"I've been waiting my whole life to hear you say that," he said, but that was a lie, and he knew it, and East cursed himself for it, but continued to smile, because what else can you do, while edging your way in between the bare legs and warm thighs of a man you only just met a few weeks prior, but waiting his whole life to hear someone say something so inviting was nice in its own right.

Not quite a lie...

Or nothing close to it.

Maybe East had trouble spotting lies from the truth. Maybe East wasn't worried about figuring that out right now. And if West had been willing to confess everything to the Austrian, well what of that either? Had East joined in at the wrong time?? Maybe he should have waited outside the door, in the hall, until West had spilled everything. Spilled his guts, and his Scotch, letting the teacup hit the floor, should it be filled with cyanide after all, and yes, it had stained the Austrian's precious white carpet, with more than the sweat on the sheets, which no, wouldn't stain, thought East. _'I'm not getting him dirty...this might hurt, but I'm not getting him dirty...I'm clean enough, I'm clean enough, this is okay...'_ and he shut his eyes, and hushed out the thought, while the Austrian hummed, somewhat in pain, somewhat in enjoyment, as he lifted his hips, and East placed his hands on either side of the Austrian's legs, and hoping -- and yes, sure enough -- the Austrian grabbed a hold, to help guide East in, and...if West had spilled his guts, and the truth, just what good would that do for him, anyway, in the long run. Kept him out of prison? Kept him from going back?? As if the Austrian would have rushed forward from his apartment complex, to report to the guards of the Grover Downs Reformatory, 'This man never murdered a cop!' and proclaiming, 'West did it! It was all his fault!! Not East, I swear to you. You've got the wrong one!' But ah, it was all ancient history at the moment. The lost moment to have his good name cleared. And yet...near the Austrian's ear, East leaned forward and whispered, because what better time and way to spill the truth; what else can you say when you've just lost what innocence you had; when you get a chance to steady your balance, and working your way in, to fill a small space, and you catch your breath, and you open your eyes and your heart and your mind to confess, in the ear of the man who just made you a man -- but wasn't East already a man?! -- and with his nose, nuzzling at the Austrian's cheek, and sweat beading down his forehead, those silver wisps all a mess, "It wasn't me," East said, panting. "It wasn't me, it was West," and he felt in Heaven, to have the Austrian's hands cling even tighter to the bare skin of his back, and so East thrust forward, or upwards, or in whatever cardinal direction he thought best. "I'm an innocent man, so thank you for this."


	13. Chapter 13

The Austrian gasped, though whether it was due to East's confession -- the ill-timing of it, and the nature of it; the truth it may or may not contain -- or due to that hard-to-take first blow landing; that initial stroke, which made his lovely face wince in pain, if only for a second, was anyone's guess. And maybe it was a combination of all things: physical shock to his system, despite his not being 'new' to such things; to having a man atop him, or inside him; but it was also a blow to his mentality; his emotions. To know...East was as clean as the Austrian, and...

"It was West," East repeated, with his mouth at the Austrian's neck. To say it over and over, with every stroke, as if consummating a marriage while making last-minute, well-paced confessions on a deathbed. All in one breath. "It was West." And the Austrian would gasp, while East moaned, and it went on like that...

Until the Austrian had tears in his eyes, though not due to any physical pain.

"Please!" he said crying, "Don't talk about him right now!!"

And the Austrian sniffled, and shut his eyes, turning his head. "Let's just get through this..."

And East couldn't help but think of their broom-closet meeting earlier in the day; now yesterday. A similar phrase: 'Let's just get this over with,' and either variation might as well have been painted in big black letters across the Austrian's bedroom wall. On a concrete slab to serve as the headboard to the plushy bed, where God himself could lean down, and not rest his head, but read the epitaph aloud. The markings on a gravestone. Graffiti on a deathbed, where a dream was dying, and quick, East, think of something more pleasant to say! Something more romantic, he bullied himself. Leaning his head up a bit, away from the Austrian's neck, and 'God damn it,' East lamented, 'I wish I could see him!' And so he grunted, though not in pleasure nor pain, but in frustration, while leaning over, to fiddle about for a switch to the blessed lamp upon the Austrian's nightstand.

 _Click_ , and the light of the priceless family heirloom lamp shone dull and yellow-tinged through a dust-speckled shade.

With his palms pressed to the purple fitted sheet -- as if doing a push-up, and stopping mid-way through; frozen in place, with stiff arms; doing routine exercise above a naked man -- East peered down at the Austrian's face, and the tears flowing from his shut eyes, and...

"Hey," East said, "look at me," coaxing by way of soft speech; hoping to persuade the Austrian to open his eyes, and be all right again, please. PLEASE...anything but this! Anything but disappointment!! Anything but tears, and this is all right, surely. To confess sins while committing one. 'We're not even married, and I'm not even clean.' But he _was_ now, wasn't he? It made his heart sing to get that sin off his chest. To tell the Austrian, once inside a safe place, as East thought of it -- inside a far better place than a small cell room, with a slender bed, and one rough sheet; to be here instead. To be atop the man, and inside him, and it was all so warm and safe, and surely...what better place to say what you've long wanted to say? To confess anything. To have your sins heard while in the midst of love-making, and if this wasn't love, and Heaven, and bliss, then East didn't want to know what really is. He didn't think the real thing could beat it, if this _wasn't_ it. And his dreams were still safe; none of it disappointing for him, except for the Austrian's sudden sadness. Those tears upon that face.

"Please," East begged, while still frozen in place. In both sets of limbs. All things at a halt. And waiting, so he could continue, but like the innocent gentleman the Austrian hadn't suspected East to be, he was fine to wait until everything was 'okay' again. To get the green light. To kiss the Austrian's forehead, and shush him, and apologize, and then dive back in. Except. There would be no diving. He was already in! Just frozen, and waiting for the mood to thaw, so he could melt back into the Austrian's arms, and that soft space beside his cologne-scented neck. And that soapy-smell of his skin. And the silkiness of the sheets, no matter how sweaty. To kiss him again, and say he was sorry, and 'I was only playing! I am a convicted murderer, I just happen to be innocent, and I'm sorry I felt the need to talk to you while doing this. I didn't know I wasn't supposed to,' and he could smirk all playful with that keeper grin of his, now that the Austrian could see it in the light of the lamp, but the Austrian kept his eyes shut, yet...he also kept his hands tight at East's back.

"Just finish!" the Austrian said, and he choked out the words: "I'm happy! Don't ruin it."

And that was all East needed to hear, and God damn it, why didn't you say so?! Why did you cry, then?? Despite his worries, East did as he was told. Like the prisoner he was; conditioned to mind, and follow orders, and sure, if you want me to finish...but, something seemed misaligned. The Austrian not as pliable in his arms. East struggled to make a few more movements with his body, and the Austrian's body, and failed to make any more heavy breaths or nice sounds emit from the Austrian's mouth.

He froze again. "But if you're happy, then why are you STILL crying?" East asked, and his voice broke, and his chest ached. "I mean...you said let's get through this like you want it to be over." And his face went hot and red, and he wished the Austrian would move his hands from the skin of his back, to the bruised skin of his neck, and choke the life out of him, so he wouldn't have to do it later, alone. "I can just stop if you want."

The Austrian opened his eyes, and now it hurt his own cheeks to smile. But at least it wasn't wasted. At least now East could see it in the light of the lamp. Casting a soft glow atop the lack of pillows, where his dark hair was spread about in soft waves. "I meant," the Austrian said, "let's get through this for us! Without your brother. Without the prison. Without any of that." And he leaned up to East, and kissed him.

The movements, on East's behalf, all got much easier after that. With the Austrian's lips to his own, and no glass between them, and without any confessions left to be heard, either...

Without any secrets kept; without any sins left worthy of repeating. Without darkness to hide their eyes, open or shut, and with a light beaming to show smiles, or grins, or smirks, or mouths agape, or teeth and tongues, and whatever faces the two new lovers were making. There were no more worries, except where to toss the body after the crime was committed. Where to find the river from this place, for that morning's sunrise would bring no new suit, nor case of beer for East to swig in the comfort of the Austrian's cushy apartment.

No. As East's breath caught in his throat, and he felt his body freeze up -- not halting his motions for long, but the shaking in his limbs inspired him to pause, as if one more move, and stop! Freeze. Aim shoot and fire; this is it -- "I'm going to come," he said, and he didn't know where, only when, and soon! Too soon, he feared, but the Austrian wouldn't be too far behind, and in that same moment, East decided, Yes, he was going to river soon after this. As soon as he came, and where to hide the body...where to wash himself clean of this crime, though it was the Austrian whom East wanted to make sure and wash up, lest he feel dirty for the rest of his life, and...yes, to the river, where he and West had tossed the body, and East would toss himself in, and this was his last moment of bliss. But how to get there from here? How far to trek. And he'd need a map. A diagram. A rule book. A manual. "Where do you want me to...?" East asked, and he didn't know the proper manners for all this. In prison, this sort of thing _did_ happen a lot, but not with proper lovers, and proper rules, and proper supplies; proper feelings, and empathy, and apologies, and forehead kisses, and brushing hair away from your lover's eyes, or wiping the tears from their cheeks, and suffering the confusion: not knowing the difference between tears of happiness and relief, from tears of sadness and disappointment, and cursing yourself, for thinking you're not pleasing someone enough, and you're coming too soon, and they'll think less of you. You ruined the evening. Why can't you hold things in? Confessing your lack of a crime whilst making love in bed, as if you are dying. But East _was_ a damned man, and on his way to his own makeshift electric chair, as it were; no electricity to surge through his body, but an icy cold river, with snow on its bank, to drown himself in. Yes. That would be nice, thought East...so warm now, and to freeze later. To feel his body unfreeze, and thrust forward one last and hard time, all the way in, as far as he could, and with every last ounce of breath in his lungs; to push it out with a deep voice, from some unused confine in the back of his throat, and grunting, not waiting...not hearing the answer the Austrian gave him. To go ahead, and he didn't mind, and any and all of the nice little words the Austrian whispered: it all went unheard, but not unsaid.

The Austrian in his own state of euphoric confusion. Just what to say once this was over? Just what to do, once the prisoner was returned to prison?? Or West. To report West. To rat out the charitable and good-looking man who was helping him. By aiding the Austrian in his charitable contributions; the blond's connections in the art world, or had 'the art world' merely been a reference to his cute Italian boyfriend?! Either way, if East wanted to go back to prison, after this was through...although the Austrian knew, East didn't want to go back. 'What an absurd thing to imply!' the Austrian realized, but...once he went back -- once he was caught, and returned -- if East didn't want to tell the truth to the guards and the law, nor to any and every man who would listen and hopefully care and believe, then really, what could the Austrian do?? Let him come inside him. Let him have his precious wish. His nightly dream. His Christmas gift. Well there, he had it, and the Austrian came too, and it was all rather unexpected to have an innocent man wilted in his arms. To have East, and not West, atop him. Ah, but...the Austrian smiled.

Meanwhile, East apologized; "I'm sorry," he said.

"Don't be," the Austrian panted. "I told you to do it."

Permission granted to hide the proof of the crime. To stash the reminder. To fill the small space with whatever East needed to unload, and get off his shoulders; to fill the Austrian's ears with the confession of a sin which had plagued him for the past year or so; and to fill the Austrian with what, no, couldn't make a child, as East often hoped for; to get married and have kids, once he was free, but...he was free now, and there was no time for marriage, and no physical reality where he and the Austrian could ever have children of their own. No way to wed a fellow man, either, but still...the Austrian sighed, while East withdrew from inside but stayed atop him, and nuzzled at his neck again, before working his way down, to lie his head on his chest. His ear at the Austrian's heart.

"I think this is nice," East said.

And the Austrian laughed, and played with East's hair. "You think what is nice?"

East shut his eyes. "I think it's nice how you didn't throw me out," he said, contented, for the fingers in his hair felt nice, so he breathed in deep, and comforted, and continued; rambling on as if writing a note before falling asleep; writing with an unseen pen, on unneeded paper; filling the small spaces between each straight line: "I think it's nice how you didn't get mad. I think it's nice how you hugged me when you saw me at the door. I think it's nice how you jumped into my arms, and wrapped your legs around me, and made cute sounds," East laughed. "I think it's nice how you invited me to bed. I think it's nice how you let me turn on the lamp."

"I didn't let you do that," the Austrian said. "You did that yourself!" he pretended to scold. "I didn't want you to touch it." 

East's eyes shot wide as he lifted his head, and stared at the Austrian. "Why?" he asked, his voice shrill. "Because of my hands??"

The Austrian narrowed his gaze, half-puzzled, half-amused. "No, because it's breakable and expensive," he explained.

"Ah," said East, and in a slow struggling turn of his chin, he nestled his ear back to the Austrian's heart again. "I knew that," he fibbed. And he glared at the lamp, studying it. Just what was so great about some old, flowery lamp from the prewar days, anyway? 'I want to break it,' he thought, then pained himself with the plan, 'I'll take it with me when I leave, and throw it against the rocks before I dive in.'

His palm to his eyes, East rubbed his fingers to the shut lids, and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Do you think I could sleep here for an hour, maybe?" he asked. "Just that long," he added. "And then I've got to find some place..." he trailed off. "I don't know how far it is from here."

"Your brother's house?" the Austrian asked, assuming that's where East would want to hide out for the remainder of his 'holiday'.

East shook his head, and wished the damn bulb in the lamp would burn out in an instant. "No," he finally said, without shaking. Without thinking nor feeling anything much but a wave of sudden tiredness and fear. "I want to find a place to stay the rest of my life," he said.

"Well, why not stay here?" the Austrian grinned, hugging at East. "You're welcome to go to my family's place," he said, but he couldn't believe his own ears; couldn't recognize his own voice! That splendid voice, like music, and it should have sounded like music to East, but...

East was fast asleep. In an instant. The sudden sleep, and it was dreamless for once. For his dream was reality, and when you get what you want out of life, then what's left to dream of? He could hear the Austrian's heartbeat in his sleep, and it sounded like a drum. Like a solider alone in the snow-covered woods, marching home, through trees, until he approached a shallow grave, dug by the shovels of the prison guards. And East had not a dream, but a nightmare. A short-lived vision; a black and white, colorless, yet vivid idea of what would happen if he didn't move from this place, and this bed, and get away from the arms of the Austrian; his subconscious trying to show him the future? But East didn't move. He didn't wince. He didn't speak in his sleep, nor cry a bit; he didn't bend nor break nor call out in his sleep. Surely not. Or not yet.

But while East slept, and once the Austrian realized he was sleeping -- due to the way East was breathing, and by the fact he wasn't moving, nor answering the Austrian's questions, nor responding to his generous suggestions -- he ran his fingers away from East's hair, and reached out, careful and graceful, like the slide of a bow, or the way his silk white jabot swayed in soft motions, like tendrils of smoke, he graced his hand to the switch of the lamp, and _click_. In the bed, he held the man still atop him, and he finished his crying jag, which he had been kind enough to put on hold, earlier in the festivities. The proceedings having required him to keep not a straight face, but a less depressing one; a less unsettling air and demeanor; no tears to be shed while in the midst of love-making! What a sin. But he sniffled now, and broke down, and cried, no longer able to hold back his tears, and no longer feeling forced to hold them back, thanks to East asleep, and the room returned to darkness.

'Let this be it,' the Austrian thought. 'Let him stay here with me a while,' he might have prayed, or only wished. 'No man has ever stayed the whole night with me here.' Men coming and going; maybe women, too, since the Austrian wasn't particular about gender, only the type of person with whom he kept company, and whether or not it was good for him, the company they kept, in and outside the bedroom, but...no one ever slept over the whole night through. Most came, and went, and left him there to his own devices. No one ever cared enough to just sleep by his side, and stay 'til morning. To stay 'til the day after. And the next, and the next, and...it was all so impossible, the Austrian thought. 'They'll catch him eventually.' Sooner or later, East would have to awaken, and rise, and climb from the bed, and hide out, as best he can, or go back to the prison, and face the music, as it were. But no man on a stage to dream of touching; to play to him while he suffers, locked away.

And the Austrian wanted to climb from the bed, and free his violin from the velvet lining of its black case, and play to the man. To play to East, while he slept. His own private concert! But he couldn't imagine how -- since the violin was stashed in some other room of the apartment -- he could climb from the bed, and find it, and return, without waking East in the interim; without making a sound; should he clang about in search of the instrument, East would most definitely wake up...to find himself alone?! 'No thank you,' thought the Austrian. 'I'm not leaving him.'

He didn't want to disturb him. Didn't want to push the man off of him, nor force him away, not even an inch. No end to this, no matter how far in the past it seemed now: the grand finish, and it was all nice enough, thought the Austrian, though he did have some lingering doubt as to whether East had ever done this before, prison or not. 'He seemed so vulnerable,' thought the Austrian. 'So uneasy, and unsteady, and worried about me...and where to...' and there were those broken sentences again. But to wake East from his sleep would surely be a sin. 'Think how tired he must be...breaking out of prison,' thought the Austrian, and he sniffed at East's hair, and wondered why East had insisted on getting clean. 'He smells like snow,' thought the Austrian, and it was comforting, really. To lie there on Christmas Night, with the scent of snow on a silver mop of hair above your heart, soft on your chest, 'And Scotch maybe,' he sort of laughed to himself. But ah well.

Barring the personal violin concert for the man above him, the Austrian sang, almost in a whisper, his silly little song about birds in cages, and "When you fly from this place, I hope someone will catch you," and he imagined East growing wings. A row of white feathers...or black ones, maybe, and gloves to match whichever color: white or black, or maybe a mixture; a combination of both, like a Prussian flag, or a panda bear; mismatching gloves on his hands, and no shirt, 'Because really,' thought the Austrian, as his eyelids grew heavy, and in a slow daze, his head tilted, and his gaze wilted shut to slivers of violet in the already dark space. All blackness. 'East looks best unclothed.' And he fell asleep, and had an odd dream of East with wings, like an eagle, or raven, or crow, or some dark, sleek bird, and he soared from the roof of a castle-esque prison, while the Austrian stood on the ground, flossing his teeth with the strings of his bow.

Or maybe that was East's dream.

Or maybe, somehow, in that cosmic space no human can see, their minds synced up, as their bodies lied synced, and East called out to the Austrian, as he fell, then flew from the roof, soaring about, and smiling that grin, _'You still haven't told me what your real name is!'_

And the Austrian stood, with both feet on the ground -- both feet bare now -- and neither men wore shoes; icy cold and bluish skin, stained flesh, but with gloves on their hands. East in his one black glove and one white glove, and the Austrian's pure white, but with blue stains, like splotches left from a faulty dark blue ink pen. The Austrian pulled the bow from his teeth, and pointed it towards the flying man, and a white light, like a spotlight beaming down from a search tower, illuminated his face in an angelic glow. _'You said you didn't care what my name is.'_

And in East's dream or nightmare, he flew, but then fell, and crashed into the grave, and the Austrian's face -- that face -- went unlit, and the light washed away, 'til the Austrian's face was featureless. As if the painting of the man, on the wall of the prison cell, unhinged itself, and drifted down into the tiny sink, where the water ran, until the page went blank, and the colors bled in rivers of pigment down the drain.

Silver slots, and the water gurgled, and East felt himself choking in his sleep.

His eyes shot open, and he sat up gasping. Looking about the dark bedroom, and he didn't know if he was in his prison cell or the infirmary! The ache in his chest, unreal, and heavy, and a wave of panic washed over him. Feeling about with flat-palmed hands, and long fingers searching the flat, fitted sheet, and he swiped them across the Austrian's naked body. Warm flesh. And a beating heart East could no longer hear. He couldn't see. And he told himself, 'This isn't real. It's just a dream, it's just a dream.' And he cried out in pain, as he pounded his fist, and with his fingertips, stabbed as the center of his forehead. 'This isn't real, this isn't real,' he chanted to himself, but then screamed:

"Wake up! I think I need you!!"

And that sound alone wasn't enough to wake the Austrian. He sort of groaned, and writhed in his sleep. 'Just five more minutes' the spoiled child might as well have mumbled, but no; he lied silent, and grimaced in the dark.

"Go back to sleep," he finally said, while reaching out his hand, and tapping towards East, but failing to greet his skin to the other man's body.

"No, but...I think I need you!" East repeated, and he cowered down, sobbing at the Austrian's chest. Wanting to wrap his hands or the sheets tight about his own neck. Or maybe the Austrian could do it for him.

The Austrian whined in his half sleep; disturbed by East's sudden outburst, but already suffering discomfort, due to the odd dreams he had been lost in. Subjected to. And it was strange how he usually didn't dream much at all, until that visitation day a week ago.

"But...let's sleep," the Austrian grumbled, and he tried again to touch East in the dark, to pet him like a scared puppy whimpering in the night.

A pound at the door sounded. A heavy fist banged upon it, and it echoed throughout the apartment, past the shut-but-not-locked bedroom door, and into the sleeping quarters, and now both men were wide awake, and the Austrian shot to sitting, and their hearts raced faster than ever before.

They knew.

How they knew, was anyone's guess, but they knew the sound emitted from the angry balled-up fist of a prison guard, or surely it was someone there to question the Austrian and to find East, thus time was up, and love was made, so at least there was that.

At least East got what he came for.


	14. Chapter 14

Once springing from the bed, East scrambled to the floor. Trying to crawl underneath it, but no. That wouldn't work, he scolded himself, and he scurried upwards and over, like a frightened rabbit, pawing his way past the Austrian's naked body. Into the dark, and on to the other side of the bed, East fell with a thud, and the Austrian wanted to laugh, just in case this wasn't a prison break nearing its end; just in case, perhaps, it was West at the door, wanting to regain entry into the Austrian's apartment. Maybe he had left something behind. Maybe he was returning, to pick up his brother after a playdate. And surely you two are done by now, he would sigh, and East would nod and grin, and maybe everything was okay. Maybe everything could be normal, wished the Austrian. Maybe East could be a regular person, and not a prisoner on the run.

His imagination taking hold of him, he tried to smile, although East couldn't see it, as the Austrian sat in bed, looking about the dark room, hoping to spot shadows; outlines and ideas of where East was standing, or cowering, or attempting to hide. "EAST!" he whispered, in as loud a tone as one can whisper without it inching near a scream. "First you need to put on some clothes."

As if prison guards cared if East was naked when they found him.

As if prison guards cared if East remained alive once they found him.

They just wanted him back into the long arms of the law, and not in the soft arms of some musician who may or may not be accused of aiding and abetting a known criminal!

The thought of such suddenly, and with much painful force, entered the Austrian's mind and heart. 'Oh God,' he thought, as the sound of East scurrying about the room was interrupted by yet another pound at the door. A fist slamming at the entrance to the apartment's sitting room.

'What if they think I helped him?! What if I get in trouble,' the Austrian fretted. He reached out, and clicked on the lamp; leaning forward, and grasping a purple sheet around his body.

"EAST!!" he whispered loud and hoarse again. His eyes wide, and he grabbed, and twisted at the hem of the sheet so tight, if it were a living creature, the Austrian would have squeezed all the life out by now; were it a fruit, there would be juice pouring down his shirtless chest; squeezing, and wringing the sheet near his heart, and above it, the silver cross of his necklace shone, like a silver tooth of a sea captain aboard a cursed ship. Smiling, and the tooth glints once, in the sun, right before the ship sinks. Before the blows can land. Before the iceberg can be struck. And the men aboard will go down with him. "Do you think they'll take me with you?!" the Austrian asked. Worried about his own ass for once. Worried...he was now an accomplice.

East, cowering in the corner of the bedroom. Naked, and using an oversized throw-pillow from the bed to hide himself, because damn it, it was the closest thing he could find, and grab, and it was silky, anyway. He peered over the top of it, and with tears in his eyes, said, "How should I know?!" and sniffling, taking a breath, "That's what you're worried about?!" he asked, head cocked, with a sidelong, wide-eyed glare. East grunted, and threw the pillow at the Austrian upon the bed. "I've gotta leave, I've gotta leave, I've gotta leave," East chanted, as if rebooting his approach to this whole situation; as if gaining strength through repetitive speech; as if gaining mental energy -- so full to bursting, and a surge of electricity in his mind -- and physical momentum by giving himself a pep-talk. And once losing himself, in this self-inflicted trance, he continued, "I've gotta leave, and you can't come with me, but I love you, so there." He slowed his speech, but not his movements. Fussing about, to cover himself with his hands, to cross the room at the foot of the bed, as he rushed to what he assumed was the Austrian's closet. Throwing open double, slatted doors, East reached for a dangling silver chain, and tugged, so as to search the closet for some clothes to don. "I love you. Really I do," he said, while fingering garments, finally ripping a coat from its hanger. "So don't worry, all right? At least I really love you."

And the words of East greeted the man he couldn't see. The man left lingering in bed. Worried about his own precious ass. But no. He was more worried for East, and despite the lamp, he couldn't see him either, yet the Austrian peeked his head past the oversized silk throw-pillow; the one East had lunged at his forehead, as he finally managed to smile. "I love you, too," the Austrian said.

And as East reemerged from the closet, with one of the Austrian's many coats in his arms, he peered at the bed, and stopped -- froze -- if only for a moment. "You love me?" East asked, a hint of shock in his delivery. Had he heard this guy right? Surely he had, and as soon as he realized it, East sighed, and he grinned, and looked up to the ceiling before letting his eyes fall shut. "You love me," he said.

Hugging the Austrian's coat to his chest, but then his eyes shot open, and he gushed again, cute little sounds like a girl gasping, almost giggling, at the sight of some boy she's madly infatuated with, until East shook his head, trying to regain the attitude of an escaped prisoner; trying to keep his mind pegged to the proper mindset. 'To get out of here. To get out of here alive. To get out of this place, in one piece, and climb from the window. Find a stairwell...a fire escape; something...anything!! And get to the damn river, before they can take me.'

And East held out his arms, and stretched the coat-sleeves onto his body. Pulling it closed, and buttoning buttons, while staring down at his hands. His hands. And they didn't seem so unclean now. They didn't seem to stain the white coat; they didn't seem to leave any soiled traces behind on the white wool. And it was beautiful, he thought. Not the same coat the Austrian had worn to the visitation, maybe, since East was quite sure, that coat had no red lining, but ah, this one did. A red silk lining. And East thought it felt nice against his bare skin.

'Like a peppermint,' he thought of the white and red, and he smiled; gushing that grin again. -- What a keeper.

And he looked to the Austrian one final time: or so East expected it to be. "I'm so glad you love me," he said. "I'm glad I met you." And East walked towards the bed, with all the buttons buttoned, and the white wool coat with its red lining, so cozy about his body. He kept one foot on the floor as he knelt on the bed; one bent leg, on bended knee, and he graced himself forward, like a prince, asking for a peasant's hand in marriage, but, "Please," East said, "don't ever wait for me."

And the Austrian set the pillow aside, and -- almost by some sense of ingrained instinct; some romantic day-dreamy air of nostalgia -- reached out, his fingers curled downward in a delicate slope, as if he were a princess, and he lent his palm into East's, and waited, with a broken smile on his face, while East kissed the top of his hand.

"But I might," said the Austrian. "I don't want you to leave."

And that was it. All the Austrian didn't need to say, and all East didn't want to hear, but ah, East shut his eyes again, and shook away the thought; the sound. It was all falling on deaf ears now. Except for the third pound at the door, and this time, whoever had balled-up fists at the Austrian's door, also had a booming voice, to give more audible dramatics to the interruption at hand. "OPEN UP!!" a man's voice sounded through the shut-and-locked apartment door.

East cocked his head, and smiled, as if saying, 'See? I told you so. Time's up. They've found me. This is just my luck,' et cetera, as he rose from the bed, and let go the Austrian's hand, only to wave his own good-bye, before turning away. Before scampering off, like a mouse in a maze, to throw open the bedroom door, and to run across the dark apartment, heading towards what light he could see.

Eventually making his way through a wide doorway, into what he soon learned was a kitchen, thanks to the telltale sight of an icebox and stove, there in the soft light emitting from a small window.

East climbed onto the kitchen counter-top, and put one bare foot into a silver sink. Facing the small window, he placed both palms on the glass, and pressed upwards, before realizing: he should first twist the latch to unlock it.

The Austrian came running into the kitchen wearing nothing but the purple sheet. "EAST!" he whispered once more, in that loud tone of his. "THESE!!" he said. And in his hands were a pair of white shoes. Shiny, and if he were to rub them together, surely they'd squeak. Patent white leather, with light purple lines all around the edges: right above where the soles were sewn on.

And East withdrew his palms from the pane. He twisted about, one bent leg, and his foot on the drain. Careful as he leaned so the faucet of the sink wouldn't poke him in the ass. And he kicked out his straight leg, as the Austrian approached him.

Grabbing East's ankle, he slid the first shoe onto his foot.

"Hurry!" East hissed, and placed that foot into the sink, bending that knee, and shifting his weight, he stuck out his other leg. As if doing a halfhearted can-can, or maybe that Russian dance where men kick, but without crossing his arms, all while squatting at a kitchen window.

The Austrian grabbed East's other ankle, and rammed the second shoe onto East's foot.

"I didn't want you to run from here barefoot!" the Austrian explained with tears on his cheeks. "I know you came here that way, and I felt so sorry for you, and..."

He choked up, and had to stop speaking, and damn it, thought the Austrian, there's no time for this! No time for good-byes, beyond the ones already said in bed, and now the door in the sitting room was being pounded so hard, it seemed destined to fly from its hinges! Loud metallic banging, and a sound akin to a battering ram upon a castle's door, once the enemy has passed the moat.

"PLEASE," said East. "Thank you, but..." he trailed off, returning his attention to the window, and once unlatching it, he hit his palms to the pane, and slid upwards, and whamo! The kitchen window was open, and both feet wore shiny white shoes in the silver sink, as East looked back, over his shoulder, if only for a second. "You're sweet," he said.

And there was a moment of silence. Both men smiling, and they knew...

This was the last time, and the last hour of darkness, before the light of morning would wash away this Christmas Day and Night, into nothing more than a memory which would serve no real purpose later in the Austrian's life, except to frustrate his heart, as he stared at the strings of a violin. As he slid a bow across them, and wished...life was fairer. More romantic. As if love songs could ever tell the truth. As if men didn't have to run from things they did or did not do. As if life ever works out for any of us. Nothing but regret, and if east was west, the sun wouldn't rise soon, but set. And then maybe...they'd have a little more time for good-byes. Or maybe...no good-byes at all! 'Maybe...' thought the Austrian, but he wouldn't let himself finish the thought. He knew there was nothing in reporting West. In having East wait, and upon welcoming the guards into his cushy apartment, the Austrian could confess the whole story to them, and let East go free, and let West go to prison in his place?

"Quick!" said East, as he stuck one foot past the kitchen window, out onto a narrow ledge beneath it. "Come here," he pleaded.

The Austrian clambered onto the kitchen counter, and knelt like a child beneath a Christmas tree, waiting for a special gift from a man he wasn't sure he should believe in; a man he wasn't sure...if he even really existed; if he should love him, and if the other kids would make fun of him for loving; a man who made this Christmas the greatest day of his life so far, and how strange to think of it that way, since the day started out so bleak...but it's funny what can come from dark places like broom-closets, to warm places like bedrooms, to...two men in a kitchen, one straddling a sill, and the other nearly falling over into the sink. The Austrian leaning forward, and into his ear, East whispered his real name.

"Now tell me yours," said East, "so I don't have any more nightmares."

The Austrian gazed up at him, and wanted to kiss him; wrestle him down to the tile, and shower him in kisses! But ah...the Austrian's gaze of awe melted into something horrified and distorted as the door in the sitting room hit the floor. Flown from its hinges after all. Denoted by the sound of a heavy weight; a singular bang; a thud! Followed-up by the strident footsteps of several men marching into the Austrian's home.

His heart froze, and nearly exploded, or so he feared.

"GO!!" mouthed the Austrian, and East damn near leapt over the sill, while ducking his head, planting his second foot onto the ledge.

The Austrian pulled the kitchen window shut, and scrambled to the floor, and threw open the cabinet door beneath the sink, and scurried into the small space. Next to a trash bin. And he pulled the cabinet door shut, with his long skilled fingers, which no, would not be sliding a bow across a violin tonight. No private concert. But he thought of music to keep himself calm enough, to not breathe too loud, to not let the sound of the guards raiding his apartment upset him too much. He slid back as far as he could, and balled up, in a sort of cube, as if men could be shaped in such a way! And he held himself; arms wrapped tight about his bare legs.

'Please don't let them find me. PLEASE don't let them find me!' he begged of God. And East, out on the ledge, said a similar prayer.

Along with the addition: 'Please don't let me fall. Please let me grow wings!' And East indeed wanted to spread his arms, and soar out, past the pane of the small kitchen window, and over the street, with shut eyes, and that grin; he wanted to grow wings, and let one single feather fall to the pavement, and the Austrian could later pluck it from the gutter, and smile over its discovery. 'An angel,' maybe the Austrian would beam.

But East...he didn't have wings. This wasn't a dream, nor a nightmare. And he pinned his back against the wall. The exterior of the brownstone-esque apartment complex, and with his shiny white borrowed shoes, one size too small, upon the narrow ledge, he cursed his luck, and his fate, and wished to God he could go for a winding walk through the woods, to take a pleasant jaunt, and feel what it's like, to walk a mile in the other man's shoes. To feel rich, and well-liked; well-loved, and accepted in this world. To be at peace with yourself, and your past. To be at ease, always, and never have to wonder or worry, what it's like for the rest of the world to view you as a monster. As an animal to be locked away. As a cockroach in need of stomping out from the face of the earth. And...it's funny how scared people are of vermin, when really, it's the small things in life which can lend so much to a boring night, and to quiet households. When there's a bug in the kitchen, surely the wife, or the more demure person in the marriage, can cringe, and cry, and climb onto the counter-top, balling up in a sort of cube, squeezing their legs tight to their body, and call out, 'Honey, there's a bug!!' And the more dominate spouse can rush in, with a shoe in their hand, and say, 'Where, Dear?? I'll kill it for you.' And in that moment, East imagined he and the Austrian twenty years down the line, with East in some fancy jacket, and a pipe in his mouth, and with the Austrian wearing a pink frilly apron, with crumbs of some cake on its front, and on his hands, white gloves, to touch everything with such pure hands, and...East could kill away all the scary things in this world for the Austrian. Protect him. Keep his home pure. His house free of the bad men who scoured every nook and cranny of the Austrian's sitting room; flipping over the silver tea tray, and throwing back cushions on the green-striped sofa; pulling down the champagne-colored curtains, and awaking the cat, who yowled, and leapt from his own sill, rushing across the floor, like a bat out of hell, and into the bedroom, where the guards followed his lead. And they tore back the remaining sheet of the bed, and knocked the silver chain dangling from the still-lit closet out of their way, and dug through the clothes, as if a man would be standing behind the well-starched garments, and shirts of silk, and coats of wool. As if anyone was left in that bedroom at all, except for a handful of angry guards, all red in the face, and breathing heavy. All of them well-armed. Guns in their holsters. Loaded weapons ready to aim shoot and fire, should they find Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven, and he prove unwilling to return.

And maybe in East's sudden and short-lived daydream, there on the narrow ledge, he saw the faces of children...or, at least, in order to save time, the face of one child. A small boy they could call some silly name, which would make East smile. Hoping he'd inherit East's silver hair, but would otherwise resemble the prettier of the pair. That Face carried on, in a perfect miniature copy. And soon East cast him into the previous fantasy; he saw the child's happy face in his mind; the little boy smiling, delighted to see 'Daddy' with a shoe in hand, killing the big scary bug for 'Mommy', and life works out okay, sometimes, for kids; to have two parents who love them; to have their parents in a warm, well-lit kitchen, depending on one another, for the sake of a peaceful home.

And East wanted to kill the bugs which might creep into the Austrian's kitchen. He wanted to stick around...he wanted to have children, or at least a child, and it was fun for him, in that moment on the ledge, to think about things he knew he could never have. All while rubbing his flattened palms to the coarse facade of the building. And the frigid chill of the air burned his nose to breathe in so deep, but he did breathe in deep, and sighed, realizing, if the guards looked out the kitchen window, a few inches past the edge of the glass, they'd see him there: pinned against the wall. Outside the frame of the window, but not so far they couldn't see, if they really tried. And God knows they would try!

To say nothing of whether or not the guards would see him, should they return to the street. And if more guards soon drove up, they too would see him. East pinned to the wall, and he let one last image of the daydream flash through his mind. Once the bug was smashed with a shoe, surely the Austrian would climb down from the kitchen counter, and throw his arms around East. Surely the kid would walk up, and wrap small hands to the backs of East's knees, and hug him. And to have a family, thought East, was the only true salvation.

He opened his eyes, and peered down, several stories, to the street below, and the cars parked in lines: slightly crooked rows, one on each side of the street, and...the gray of it all; the concrete. The pavement. The uninviting cold bleak structured sleekness of it all.

He didn't want to dive onto something so hard and flat and barren. So man-made.

'The river,' he thought. 'But the river...'

That was his place.

And so he turned his head, in a quick jerk, and with a sharp gaze of those red-violet eyes, he peered out against the wall, and then down, to his shiny white shoes on the narrow ledge. Just how far could this take him, he wondered. And he began inching over; the heels of the shoes scuffing along, and bits of dust flew; brown hunks broke free and crumbled, falling into nothingness once leaving the wall, and East could hear a whirl of sounds, unsettling, and a scream -- one piercing scream -- from within the Austrian's apartment.

'If they kill him?!' thought East, and he jerked his head back towards the window. His body still flat against the wall; his arms stretched out, like a man upon a cross, and he gazed at the glass, which was now several more inches away from where he had stood while letting what he thought would be his last daydream seep from his imagination, and he peered at the glass, and wondered if he should go back, and try to push up the pane, and crawl back through, and save the Man in the Painting.

'You can't let them break you,' he thought.

And he didn't cry. He wanted to, but...East peered down at the pavement again, and he gasped this time, for his legs shook, and his head went airy and light. He shut his eyes, and if he felt faint, he felt faint. Nothing he could do to stop it. And maybe it wouldn't be so bad, he reasoned, or tried to convince himself. At least if he fell unconscious, and plummeted from the side of the building, it wouldn't be ruled a suicide.

***

As if drunk, East's head was in a daze, and his gaze darted back to the side of the wall without the window, without the small sheet of glass, behind which, he heard a scream, yes, but what could he do now?! Give himself up...climb back through, and save the Austrian??

No. The Austrian would have to save himself. And East hated it; oh how it pained his heart, and shortened his breath, and spun his head. But...West was out there somewhere, too, tonight, and just why did he have to leave?! East thought. As if West could have stood, towering over their bedside, while the two consummated the love West didn't have to buy.

'Maybe West can take care of you from now on,' East thought of the Austrian, and that pitiful cry he had heard, from beyond the kitchen window and thick apartment wall. How loud that cry must have been to the guards...looming right next to him. But the Austrian was an awfully beautiful creature; maybe they'd be swayed by his musical voice, and those delicate hands as they covered those violet eyes. Maybe they'd make a meal of him, though?! East gritted through the dark teeth in his mind. 'Those bastards! If any of them try anything with my sweetheart, I'll kill them!!' And he felt like a murderer for once in his short life. He felt like he could choke the life out of someone other than himself.

Yet East inched away from the window. His hands against the wall, he eased over, and sideways; edging along the narrow stone ledge which wrapped all the way around the complex. His movements akin to a crab on a beach. Knees slightly bent; his legs forming an upside-down 'V', widening every time he took a step. 'Walking' like a pair of scissors opening and shutting. His arms outstretched; had he no head, his upper body would form a 'T'. His palms flat against the stone, as he inched and eased. Pacing the wall as careful as a man on a tightrope. If only he had a flashy outfit, and a carnival barker down below. Someone to narrate the spectacle taking place overhead, to add an air of excitement to it, and to announce the high-dive East was sure was about to take place. Hopefully the carnival barker would take a few minutes to install a safety net. 'And for his next trick, Prisoner Number Nineteen Forty Seven will evade the police...' just long enough to fall to his death?

'I can't go on anymore,' East thought, and the heady daze hit him again, and he swallowed hard as he swayed, peering down at the pavement; narrowing his gaze, and for one last time -- he was sure it was the last -- he imagined the Austrian's face. The way it looked that November night East first laid eyes on him. The way he stood on that stage, and played to a pack of prisoners; wolves. And East, for some reason, switched to imagining his prison bed empty. He saw in his mind, the rough sheets. The slender mattress. The tiny sink. And upon recalling all this -- his cell, but without him in it -- for a fleeting moment, East felt homesick.

Snapping him back to reality came a tingling pain in his right leg. As if a vein were about to burst! And the sudden memory, along with the shooting pain, flooded his mind with all the things he wanted to say to the Austrian, before leaving his home, and his good graces, and his arms. Before leaving him, to be devoured by the wolves who wrangle and herd the wolves; before the men in uniform -- the proper wolves -- could grope their way around the Austrian's apartment; before they could grope his precious and well-placed decorations and overpriced belongings; his priceless heirlooms. 'If they break that lamp in the bedroom, I swear to God...' thought East, but his temple throbbed as he remembered how he had wanted to break that lamp, too. The haughty thing. But he peered out, despite the pain in his limb and head. And from his cramped spot on the ledge, he saw something most cherished on the horizon. Around the next corner from his side of the building, stood a black metal fire escape. Too far away now to even hope of setting foot on it. But East had learned, nothing was out of reach. Nothing was ever _too_ far away. He could leap from this place, sure, and land, face-first on concrete and pavement, and smash his face, and smash himself from existence; smash the life right out of him! Or he could save his guts, and not die like a stomped bug, with obliterated organs smeared onto the dirty, snow-speckled, and oil-stained pavement at dawn, but...press on. Carry on with his narrow-ledge trek, in shiny white shoes, towards the exit. To the black metal outdoor staircase. To climb over its railing, onto one of its many platforms, and work his way down the building. On his own two legs. No matter how much they both now ached. No matter how much the pained cries from within the apartment unnerved him. Broke his heart, but his heart was still beating, and the Austrian was a man as well, God damn it. He could fight off the wolves, and he could live to see another day, too. He could take it, and let East find a way to pass on from this place. Even if East still didn't know the Austrian's real name...East could live with the nightmares. -- If he lived.

'Maybe I can reach it, and climb down, and sneak back to the prison, and back into my cell, and tell the guards, I was never gone!' he laughed to himself, 'You guys were just having a bad dream.'

And East smiled at the sight of the fire escape. The winding eyesore affixed to the otherwise picturesque structure.

'I'll be there soon,' he thought, assuring himself with a grin. 'I'll get there.'

And East raised his chin, and pressed on, moving faster now, lest the guards come sprinting out from the front door and lobby of the apartment complex with the Austrian in tow; to take the aristocratic musician -- the Pretty Boy, sans his instrument, and sans the prisoner -- in for questioning. A sight East couldn't bear to see: the Austrian in custody. And so he edged further along, until the fire escape was closer within reach; only a few more paces away. And then all he'd have to do is just move around the corner, and hop over the rail, and...

It was all a nice dream, but East wasn't the star of a German fairy tale. This was no carnival trick, and there sure as hell was no safety net.

He wobbled at first, and then, feet skittering, in those shiny white shoes, as more of the ledge crumbled, and fell from his sight, East emitted a throaty whine, and grasped at any jagged stone he could find. Grabbing tight to the wall, his left foot departed first; he grasped tighter, and took a sharp breath. His left leg shot out from beneath him, and his whole body jerked. His eyes shut tight, and a wave akin to seasickness passed over him. Vertigo, perhaps. And the sight in his blackened mind was something right out of the sketchbooks of M. C. Escher. Sprawling staircases, in a swirl; staring right into the center of it all; right into the pivotal point where gravity ceases to exist for one man. And East felt fainter. His leg dangling, and his weight shifted, and surely, if the whole wall were to crumble, he could unhinge himself with some dignity intact. It wouldn't be suicide, but a glorious accident. And he could forget the escape, and the love-making, and the fact he never learned the Austrian's name. He could fall to the pavement like a feather which plucked itself clean from an angel's wing, to join itself to the strings of the Austrian's bow. Or maybe he could don it in his dark hair. Like an ornament. Or place it upon a Christmas tree this same time next year.

And if the wall crumbled, or didn't exist at all, East wouldn't die, but land softly on some sprawling flight of stairs. And where one gave way, another would appear. And they'd go on for an eternity. Building and breaking, and growing up again, when and where one disappeared. Giving way, and leading upwards, where no other men dared to tread. He could climb, always upwards, never losing his footing, but...East sunk lower, and grabbing tight to the stone, 'This is it,' he said in his mind, all in one instant. Not as if speaking to God, but to his deepest most darkest subconscious. 'I knew I'd lose you.' And East slid.


End file.
